


Invictus

by vardaesque (neonheartbeat)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bombing, Drug Use, F/M, Gun Violence, Human Trafficking, Hurt/Comfort, Naked Cuddling, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sex, Shower Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 03:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12808866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/vardaesque
Summary: It's been a month since the man they call the Punisher has been seen in the streets of Hell's Kitchen. In the wake of a terror attack, Karen Page finds herself tangled in a network of secrets that leads her back to the man she loves and keeps losing.





	1. Chapter 1

If you asked Karen Page why, exactly, she carried a .380 in her purse at all times, she would simply look up,  smile at you blandly, and inform you it was for personal protection.

She would not tell you it was because she'd once shot a man seven times in cold blood as he sat across from her at a table. She wouldn't tell you about the horrors of Hell's Kitchen; the violence behind the closed doors of warehouses.

No, she'd let her fragile looking figure and pale coloring do all the speaking for you. _I'm just a scared little pretty white woman in New York trying to get to work safely,_ says her demeanor to the general public. Big round blue eyes. Long blond hair, like cornsilk. _It's so dangerous in the big city._

Karen Page would not tell you she was one of the dangers in Hell's Kitchen. Karen Page wouldn't tell you that, because she wasn't aware of it yet. But if you happened to lay a finger on Karen Page, said the whispers in the streets and the back alleys, you might get an unwelcome visit .

A very, very unwelcome and unpleasant visit, from the ghost of a dead man.

~

It was a cold and windy Thursday in December  when Karen left her apartment and realized—immediately following the conclusion of her morning commute on foot to the Bulletin's office—that she had somehow walked out of the house without her gun.

"Shit," she said, too cold to bother with a more extensive expletive. Well, it wasn't like she could zip back for it, and besides, it was almost Christmas. One day without her gun shouldn't be a huge deal. Plus, after the mess in November, most of the crime had seemed to die down. She privately hoped it was because someone was getting to the crime before the police could, and not because someone was biding their time to unleash a nightmare yet again on the citizens of New York.

"Morning," said the security guard at the door. "Cold."

"Yep," she said, and stepped inside. _Please,_ she thought absently to whatever might be listening, _let this be a normal day._

At 3 PM, she was immersed in writing up a new article covering a drug bust in Brooklyn when the fire alarm went off.

She jumped so hard that her cold cup of coffee flew to the floor. "Christ," she said, and jumped up to peer out the door.

"Routine test," said her coworker Ellison, poking his head out from his own office. "Come on. You know the drill."

Karen turned back for her purse and coat before following the rest of her office down the stairs and into the frigid courtyard, where it seemed the entire population of the building was gathered. Several long, cold minutes passed. She crossed her arms in impatience. "So when's it getting shut off?" she said. "Shouldn't the fire department be here?"

"Who knows?" grumbled someone near her, and just like that, the alarms all went dead silent.

Karen instinctively reached into her purse for her gun, and froze when her hands grasped only the magazine she'd been absently reading that morning. _Where the hell is the fire department?_

"Page?" asked Ellison, and she realized she was quickly and instinctively backing away from the street, away from the white van that was pulled up to the curb in clear violation of the parking laws, because something wasn't right—

The van exploded.

Searing heat washed across her face as she toppled head over heels into the winter-dead laurels that ringed the courtyard. The wind was knocked out of her. She struggled, sucked in a desperate breath of ash and smoke, and jerked her head upright.

Someone was crying. People were staggering upright, covered in dust, but not bleeding. Nobody was lying on the ground unmoving . It wasn't a deadly explosion, then—

Karen saw two men in black across the street dart into an alley. She didn't even think. She staggered upright and bolted toward the street. The sirens blocked out the sounds of her coworkers yelling at her to stop. _I have to find them,_ was her only thought as she limped across the street as fast as she could and into the alley.

They were waiting for her.

One of them grabbed her by the hair the second she stepped into the shadows and slammed her to the ground. The other dragged her upright and pinned her against the wall with a heavy forearm. "What the fuck do you think you're doin'?" he sneered behind his black ski mask.

"You _bombed_ us," she wheezed out, and kicked him in the groin with a heeled foot. He grunted and dropped her. Karen barely had time to suck in a breath before the other one grabbed her by the arm, twisted it behind her back and marched her down to the back of the alley.

"Fuckin' reporters. You can bomb 'em and they'll still follow you like a fuckin' dog."

"Let go of me!" she snapped, and struggled in vain as they reached the chain link fence separating property lines.

"What, you don't like it?" said Goon One, recovering from his balls being kicked. "Should have thought of that before you followed us."

Goon Two slammed Karen's face against the chain link fence. "I just want to know why you set that bomb," she said frantically. "Please. You didn't kill anyone."

The grip tightened on her neck. "Why don't you ask my goddamn supervisor about the warning?" he snarled. "I didn't fuckin' make no executive decision to—"

A single small _zip_ from somewhere, and Karen felt the jerk and shudder of Goon Two's body as he slackened and fell away from her and the fence. She whirled around and Goon One was shuffling down the alley, hands out, a pistol in one of them.

"Motherfucking—"

A man stepped out of the shadows, past the chain link fence. Karen had just enough time to register the white skull painted on his bulletproof vest before his right hand shot up, quick as a snake, and there was another _zip_ and Goon One was down, writhing and shrieking and grabbing at his arm.

Karen watched as the man in black effortlessly climbed the fence and landed by her in a swirl of leather. "You all right?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, oddly queasy. "Probably going into shock, actually."

"Hold tight." He squatted by the still-living man and dragged him upright. "Quit bitching. That isn't fatal. I need you to take a message for me."

"Man—I didn't—please—"

"What, you don't like it? Should have thought about that before you bombed a crowd full of people, asshole," snapped Frank, and punched him in the shot arm. He screamed. "I _said_ , you get up and you go find Falconetti, and you tell him if he ever runs another busload of runaway teenagers into a shipping crate again, the Punisher's gonna string him up by his dick and feed his balls to his wife. You got that?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it, man, please—"

Karen shut her eyes as the guy stumbled off into the alley, gripping his arm. Something shifted, and she went sideways against the chain link, crashing into cold metal.

"Hey, hey, hey," said a warm and husky voice, and two arms grabbed her. "Don't faint on me, Page."

"Frank," she whispered. "Sorry."

"You get hurt? They hurt you?" He was touching her face, checking for injuries, running his hands over her arms. "You're a mess, Page."

"It's just dust from the explosion," she explained, and shut her eyes. "I didn't think you'd be back."

"Well, here I am," he said, and lifted her to her feet. "You got this?"

"Standing?" Karen took a deep breath and opened her eyes, making sure the ground wasn't rolling. "I think so."

"Your knees are all scraped up." Frank's brow furrowed.

"I took a dive into laurels." She tucked her hair behind her ear.

"Where the hell's your gun?"

Karen shut her eyes again. "I left it at home."

"You did what?"

She rubbed her forehead. "God damn it, Frank. I left it at home. It was a mistake, okay? I was reading a magazine and had my gun in the other hand and I accidentally put the magazine in my purse and left the gun on the coffee table."

"You could have been killed." He pressed his lips together in an expression of high disapproval.  "If I hadn't been here—"

She dropped her purse and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him so tightly she didn't think she could let go. "Goddamn you," she gasped, tears filling her eyes. "I thought you were gone. Nobody knew where you were after the Central Park fiasco—I thought you were dead or worse—"

"Hey, hey, shh," he said, and curled one arm around her waist as he holstered his gun. "Hold on. Hold your horses." His right arm joined the other one in a much gentler embrace than the soul-squeezing hug she was bestowing on him. "Page. Karen. It's okay."

"You could have called," she said into his shoulder. "Anything."

"I had a new identity. Couldn't. It's complicated." Frank carefully broke the hug and looked down at her. "I'll come see you. Tomorrow night, okay? You gotta go talk to the police. You tell them—listen, okay? Tell them it was Benny Falconetti's thugs trying to shut up the story about human trafficking. Here." He unholstered the gun, wiped it clean, and put it in her hands. "You give them this. You tell them you shot one of the guys in self defense and his body is in the alley, and the other guy got away. You got it?"

"Yes. Yes, I got it."

Frank unscrewed the silencer and fired a shot into the ground as he tucked the piece back into his belt. "Go. You go and you tell them. I'll see you."

"Frank—"

He froze, leaned in and gave her an awkward and rushed kiss on the cheek through her hair, then jumped back over the fence.

Karen didn't watch him go. She was already stumbling toward the end of the alley and the open street.

~

After giving a statement to police and sitting in the back of an ambulance getting ointment applied to her scrapes, Karen called a taxi and had it take her straight home. She was not walking on the street, even if Frank was out there. It was past seven, and it was dark. No way.

She got home, let herself in, stripped off her clothes, dumped them into the laundry, and ran a bath. Everything hurt. She was tired down to her bones.

Easing herself into the hot water was a trial. She was so tired from the adrenaline rush that she didn't even bother soaping up. She laid her head back and closed her eyes. _Only a minute,_ she told herself, and the next thing she knew she was jerking upright, heart pounding.

The water was cool. She was sore. Something had bumped in her living room, she was sure of it. Her eyes went straight to the gun Frank had given her, resting comfortably on the sink.

There. A long scraping noise, and a thud. Someone was in her fucking apartment.

Karen slowly and silently lifted herself out of the water without splashing. Her bare wet feet hit the mat, and she grabbed a towel to tuck around her chest before picking up the gun. She knew it was loaded, because Frank kept every weapon he owned in meticulous condition.

 _These human trafficking thugs aren't gonna know what hit them,_ she thought, trying to amp herself up. Slowly, she slid out the door and into her bedroom, which was empty, The sliding door to the living area was ajar, and she stepped carefully and slowly up to the wall, listening, and peered around it.

There was a man in her fucking kitchen. He was standing with his back to her, clad in black, and holding a rifle, and even though it was shadowy, she was sure he had on a black ski mask.

Karen stepped out and fired a single shot directly at his head.

The bullet buried itself in her refrigerator with a _thunk._ Her target staggered, turned around just enough for her to see that he was not, in fact, wearing a ski mask, and said, "Karen?" before slumping to the kitchen floor.

It was Frank.

"Oh, _fuck,_ " said Karen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am horrible at formatting and forgot to check that fun little box that says "hey there's more than one chapter to this work". But yes there are many chapters coming (yay long weekend) and here is the second one. ENJOY.

Dragging an unconscious man who weighed probably twice what she did, complete with his twenty pounds of what she privately referred to as "battle gear", to the bathroom _while_ clad in nothing but a towel, no less, was not an easy feat, but fortunately Karen had never been the "give up because it's hard" type of person.

She laid Frank out on the floor beside her bathtub, ignoring (for now) the blood seeping into the mat. Her shot, thank God, had just skimmed the left side of his head, leaving a gouge that looked nasty and was bleeding a good amount but hadn't cut through to the skull underneath. He was breathing, soft and even, and his pulse was weak but it was there.

"God damn it, Frank," she hissed through her teeth her eyes full of tears. Shot him with his own gun. "What the hell were you doing?" His face was beat to hell, his nose swollen and bleeding. Both his eyes looked like they were sporting the beginnings of two identical contusions, and his clothes seemed to be wet with a fair amount of blood. Whether it was his own or someone else's, she did not know.

She went through the laborious process of unbuckling his armor and disrobing him of his multiple layers of clothing until he was down to his black boxer-briefs and there was a pile of wet black clothing in her sink. Her towel was stained. Her hands were stained. _How the hell am I going to get this blood out of everything?_  His body was bruising already, the color of a purple deep tissue bruise on his chest and shoulders. There was a nasty gash on his left bicep. It was clotting, but still leaking a fair amount of blood.

Karen went to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of vodka and three old dishtowels. She'd never done this kind of first aid before, especially not on her own bathroom floor, and she didn't relish what might happen if Frank jerked awake and tried to fight.

A sharp knock on the door made her heart leap into her throat. "Coming!" she called, and peered through the eyehole.

It was a thirty something woman in her bathrobe. She recognized her. Mrs…Angelo? DiAngelo? Something? She was down the hall.

Karen opened the door. "Can I help you?"

"I thought I heard a gunshot. Are you all right?" Mrs. Something was peering into her apartment. It was so dark, Karen thought, that she probably wouldn't have been able to see fifty raccoons playing tennis in the apartment, let alone a gun dropped hastily on the floor.

"I'm fine, thanks. I think it was the guy next door. There's, uh, so many raccoons getting into the trash, you know, maybe he took a pot shot at them."

Mrs. Whatsherface narrowed her eyes at Karen. "Apartment next door's vacant."

Karen forced a smile on her face. "Might have been upstairs, or downstairs. I really don't know what to tell you, ma'am. So sorry."

"Is that vodka?" The neighbor's eyes were focused on the bottle Karen had forgotten to put down.

"Yes," said Karen. "I usually get a drink around—" She glanced sideways and saw the digital readout on the microwave read 11:34 PM. "—Um, half past eleven at night on a Thursday."

"Well, you shouldn't drink so much," said Mrs. Whatever. "Next thing you know you'll be shooting up the drugs and partying the night away."

"Well, I'm very sadly just a raging alcoholic, ma'am. Have a great night!" Karen hurriedly shut the door and locked it in Mrs. Angelo DiAngelo's shocked face, and snatched the towels off the sideboard.

Back in the bathroom, she knelt down and poured vodka over one towel, steeled herself, and pressed it to his head.

Frank's eyes popped open and he made an awful choking noise, jerked, stared up at her wildly, and coughed. A gob of dark blood spilled out of his mouth and onto his chest.

"Frank, it's me," Karen said, and looked down for a place to put her hand that wasn't covered in bruises.

"You shot me," he croaked.

"You sneaked into my kitchen and I thought you were one of the—the trafficking guys, one of the henchmen." Karen dabbed at the head wound. "You owe me a new fridge."

Frank snorted, then winced. His eyes traveled down his own body. "Put it on my tab. Along with the new rugs. Sorry about the blood. I came in the window. You should lock them."

"Jesus," she said in exasperation.  "What happened to tomorrow night?"

"Well, uh. I tracked the asshole back to his boss. Thought I'd see if I could finish the job in one day. Falconetti wasn't too happy to see me. As you can see." He gestured with his good arm down his body. "Dragged my ass all the way back here."

"Do you have something against hospitals?" Karen lifted the towel and peered under it.

"Cops in hospitals. You were the first person I thought of. Safe place." His eyes drifted shut.

"No, no, no. Frank. Stay awake." Karen patted his face. He mumbled indistinctly and opened one eye.

"I almost forgot, Page. I've been shot. Bullet's in my armpit. You got a pair of forceps?"

~

Twenty minutes later, Frank was bracing himself against her sink, using her eyebrow tweezers to reach into a small hole three inches to the left of his left pectoral muscle, right up against his ribcage. Karen was holding her lighted cosmetics mirror close enough for him to see what he was doing.

"I feel it," he said, sounding strained. His arm was shaking. Karen bit on her lip and didn't say a word.

Slowly, excruciatingly, he pulled the bullet out from the muscle it had lodged itself in, and dropped it with a clink onto the sink. "Ah, fuck," he groaned, and slumped forward.

Karen caught him. "Hey, hey," she said. "Breathe."

"Blood loss," he mumbled. He did look pale around the lips.

"I'll patch you up. Hold still." Karen realized her towel was slipping and awkwardly held it up with one hand while leaning him against the sink with the other.

"Why the towel?" he murmured.

"I was in the bath, if you have to know," she said, and pressed a gauze pad to his side. "I fell asleep. Don't move." She cut four strips of medical tape and plastered the pad to his side. "There. Okay, what now?"

Frank's head lolled back. "S'okay. Prob'ly need stitches in my head. My kit's in the little bag."

"I'll do it," said Karen, and went for the bag, coming up with a first aid kit complete with needles and surgical thread.

"Page—"

"You're passing out. Frank. I can do this." She threaded the needle, sterilized it in the vodka, and let it sit while she pulled out her razor. He didn’t move as she shaved off an inch around the open gash on his head. "Okay, here we go."

"You do it one at a time. Not like when you sew clothes up all in a link," he said, half awake.

"I know," said Karen, too proud to admit she had not, in fact, known that. "Hold still."

He stayed stock still as she sewed up his torn scalp, only making noise once when she accidentally stabbed the needle into his raw flesh. After five inexpert but secure stitches were tied off, she dabbed his bald spot with more vodka. He gritted his teeth and his knuckles went white, clenched against the sink.

"Okay. Done. I can give you some Aleve for the pain, but I doubt it will do anything significant."

"Don't bother," he said. "I can go."

"You're not going anywhere," said Karen, leaning back against the cabinet. "You're staying here until you can walk without passing out."

"Page, I can't live in your place." He spit blood into the sink. "I can't ask you to do that."

"I have the day off tomorrow. I'll be at home all day, and then a two day weekend. You should be fine by then." Karen stood up. "If you can stand up, wash yourself up and then go to bed."

Frank stood, stared off into the distance for a second, and then said in a very matter of fact voice, "Hey, Karen. I'm blacking out."

"Oh, shit, sit down." Karen darted for him. Her towel, which had become stuck on the knob of the cabinet she was leaning against, did not come with her. _He's blacking out anyway, he can't see._ She grabbed him, sat him back down on the floor, and guided his head between his legs. "Deep breaths. Stay with me."

"Yes, ma'am," she heard faintly from between his knees.

"We have to get you into bed and get your feet elevated. And I'll make you soup." Karen patted his shoulder on the one unbruised spot.

"Karen." His voice was husky, slightly strained. "Are you naked?"

"…You can see again?" Karen flailed her arm back for the towel. "Shit."

"Did it just—fall off or are you trying to seduce me, Page?"

"It fell off, and I don't seduce people." Karen found the towel and clasped it to her chest.

"It's okay," he said, and raised his head. "Just saw way more leg than I expected." He cracked a half smile, bloodstained teeth gleaming. "Mrs. Robinson."

"Oh, shut up," said Karen, and blushed up to her hairline. "Can you stand okay? We've got to get you into bed."

"Oh, yeah, you definitely wanna get me into bed." Frank clutched the sink and slowly stood upright.

"You're delirious," Karen said. "You're running a fever."

"Probably," he said, and wet a washcloth, wiping his face. "I got this. I'll yell if I pass out again. You said something about soup."

Karen deliberately made eye contact with him in the mirror. "Yeah, let me just change into something less likely to come off when I move." She dropped the towel and grabbed her robe. Frank's better eye widened in the flash second before he looked down into the sink, and she smirked to herself as she tied the robe shut and walked back out into the kitchen.

She microwaved a bowl of beef stew she'd made on Monday to last her all week, and brought it into the bedroom with a cup of tea. He was making his way slowly into the room.

"I think a rib or two might be broken," he said.

"Well, wouldn't surprise me. Get into bed."

"I can't take your bed, Page. I'll sleep on the sofa."

"Frank. Get into _bed._ "

He limped to the side facing the bedroom and eased himself down. "Oh, fucking hell," he gasped as his body bent at the waist.

"Easy." Karen set the food down on the nightstand and put a hand on his shoulder. "Okay. Um, swivel and I'll help you down."

"It's fine," he grunted, and kept his wounded arm close to his body as he tried to turn himself.

"Just let me help you." Karen hooked her hands around the back of his knees and pushed him sideways, then caught his back and slowly guided him down to the pillows.

"Shit," he said blearily as his whole body melted into the mattress. "Feels better."

"Eat this." Karen held a spoonful of soup to his lips, and he obeyed, swallowing down all the food and then the tea as she held the mug up to his face, sip by sip.

She put the dirty dishes in the kitchen and came back into the bedroom, and he was half asleep already, his feet elevated as he lay on top of the covers. "Hey, Page," he said.

"Hey, Castle," she said, and patted him on the cheek gently. "Gonna wash up. I'll be back in a second."

"Mmm," he said.

She ducked into the bathroom to wash the blood off her hands and scrub her nails with a brush. He looked horrible. His face was already swelling, he was multiple colors. She had never wanted to throw on a vest of her own and go punish some people more than she did at that second.

Shaking her head, she threw on a T shirt and flannel pants, then padded back into the bedroom. Frank was out like a light; fast asleep with his mouth slightly open, but blessedly not snoring yet.

Karen deliberated for a second, then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead lightly. "If I wake up and you're gone," she whispered, "I am going to be very pissed."

She got a blanket from the closet, spread it out over him, and got into bed on the opposite side, tucking herself under the covers and enjoying the warmth from his body. She flicked off the light and listened to him breathe. "Please," she whispered to the darkness, closing her eyes. "Stay."


	3. Chapter 3

When Karen opened her eyes, she squinted against the cool winter sunlight filling her bedroom. Had her alarm not gone off? Then, in the split second it took her to wake up fully, she remembered. Day off. Bomb. Work. Frank.

Frank.

She sat up and looked down at the empty, perfectly made bed next to her. _Oh, no,_ she thought dismally, and swung her legs out of the warm nest of blankets to rush to the door.

The blood on the kitchen floor was gone. The dishes were all washed. And on her sofa, head tilted back and mouth slightly open, was Frank.

He looked even worse by morning light. Karen's eyes flitted across him, noting the ice pack sitting across his eyes and the swollen flesh around his mouth. "Frank," she whispered, inching nearer.

His body jerked and he reached up, removing the pack from one of his eyes. She grimaced. His left eye was swollen shut and his right was close to it. "Page, that you?" he rasped through bruised lips.

"In the flesh." Karen sat on the sofa and touched the ice pack. "Let me get you a fresh one."

"Middle of the night, blood rushing to my head. Woke up with the world's worst headache. Face-ache." Frank leaned forward as she scooped ice cubes out of the freezer. "Came out here, slept sitting up. Helped a little."

"Here." Karen handed him the ice pack. "You put that on your face, and then you explain to me about this Falconetti guy and whatever it is he's doing."

"I'm not telling you shit, Page. The less you know, the better."

Karen pressed her lips together. "Let me make myself clear. A couple of goons bombed the paper I work for. People could have died. Someone there is obviously investigating something that this Falconetti guy doesn't want them to. Who is it?"

"Page." Frank took the ice pack down and gave her a one-eyed glare. "Look at me."

"I—" She couldn't. He was grotesque in the light, the strong bones of his face blurred by bruising. She didn't want to. She _couldn't._

" _Look_ at me, Karen." He grabbed her chin with his good arm and she made eye contact. His eyes were as wide as he could open them, black and angry even under the contusions. "Look at what they did to me. You think _you'll_ come outta this in one piece?"

"I have to do something," she said. "Frank, those are my coworkers at risk. I'm at risk. We can't just give in to terrorist attacks."

"Fucking idealist," Frank said gruffly, and dropped his hand. Her chin felt cold without it.

"Just give me a name. Please."

"I can't."

"You can't or you won't?" Karen crossed her arms and glared at him.

"They can't target the person doing the investigation directly. Family has connections. So they're going after the whole paper as an intimidation tactic." Frank sat back. "Let it go. The cops are involved at this point. You can't do a thing about it."

Karen dragged her hands down her face. "If you're back after a month of no contact, it has to be big."

"You're damn right." Frank  blinked at her. "Which is why I'm telling you this is outta your league. Stay put. Go to work. Behave."

There was something indefinable in his voice, something she'd never heard there, and it took her a moment to place it.

"You're afraid," she said, somewhat stunned. "You—Frank, how bad _is_ it?"

"Bad. And if something happens to you—if—Page, listen to me. You are not going after this thread. You don't wanna pull on it."

Karen fixed him with a stare. "I have a duty to—"

"Karen." His voice was soft, hoarse, pleading. "Don't. What do I—what do you want me to do? Beg you? Get on my knees? Jesus Christ."

"You don't underst—"

"No, _you_ don't understand," he said, angrily pushing himself up . "These people are ruthless. They've mutilated children. Children, Karen. Kids. Eight year olds. They've kidnapped babies. They've taken students. Anybody. You step into that, you're done for. Look at you. Blonde, big blue eyes, someone will pay tens of thousands for you if they get their hands on you. You're not safe. I'm out of commission for now. They beat me to shit so I couldn't interfere with their little routine. Half these people have unspoken police protection. You remember the shooting a week ago, the black kid gunned down in the street by the cops because he didn't have his license on him?"

"Wh—Marcus Martin?"

"Yeah. Marcus. I did some looking. He'd stumbled on a guy working for Falconetti who was trying to kidnap a drunk girl he'd roofied at a bar the day before. Fought him, fucked him up pretty good and got her out of there. Good kid. Heading to college. No record. And Falconetti made a few phone calls, and just like that he was dead on a bullshit charge. Bullshit. Because Falconetti lost thirty grand. Value of that girl." Frank clenched his right hand into a fist. "You have to understand. These people don't give a shit about the rule of law. If you mess with them, you're gonna die."

Karen pressed her fingers to her lips. _But if you can't, someone has to do something,_ she thought.

"I will not lose you," he said, in a half-broken voice that made her want to crawl inside him and never let go.

"So what do we do?" she asked. "Tell me, Frank. What do we do?"

"Page, this ain't a _we_ situation. You're not doing jack shit. I'm laying low until I can go back out there. You forget about it."

She shook her head forcefully. "I can't do that, Frank. No. I have to do something."

"No, you don't. Swear to God, Page. I will sit on your head if I have to."

"You can't even stand up," she threw back, and made to get up off the couch.

In a split second, his fingers had closed around her thin left wrist and she was jerked backwards against his wide chest, her right  arm secured down between his bicep and his chest. "Frank!" He clamped his right arm over hers, and she suddenly became uncomfortably aware that she wasn't wearing a bra under her thin T shirt.

"Don't," he said into her ear, hot and smelling like iron and salt. "Please, Karen. Promise me. You have no obligation to pursue this."

"But it's the right thing to do," she protested, unmoving. "Isn't it?"

"I ain't letting you get killed over your fucked up idea of what you think the right thing is," he grunted.

"If you're not gonna let me get hurt, then I have backup, don't I?" Karen shifted on his lap, and his broad arm moved across her chest, brushing her nipples. She shut her eyes and cursed silently as she felt them rise and harden to the touch, and he froze.

"I can't—" he began, and turned his head slightly. "Karen. I can't be your backup. You run off this week, you're dead. Got that?"

"Okay." She swallowed. "So once you're up and about again. I can investigate. Compromise?"

"Absolutely not," he whispered, and his arms tightened. "No. No compromise, no running off. Get this through your goddamn head, Page. I ain't about to lose you."

"You left me already," she hissed. "A month, Frank. I thought you were dead."

"I'm sorry," he said, and she wished his face wasn't such an unreadable mess. "I should have sent you a note. I'm sorry. Please. Don't go get yourself killed to fuckin' spite me."

"I'm not—" Karen began, and then stopped short. "That's not what I'm doing."

"You sure?" Frank shifted and looked her in the face. "Because that's what it seems like. Intrepid fuckin' reporter, Karen Page, pissed at the Punisher for not coming back for a month. Going off to show him who's boss. Gonna get herself killed."

Karen shut her eyes. "Stop," she whispered.

"What do you want from me, huh?" he said, and shook her gently. "Hey, Page. What do you want?"

She kept her eyes shut. If she opened them she was sure tears would start leaking out. "I want to find the fucking sons of bitches who did this to you, and I want to kill them," she said.

Frank didn't say a word. She opened her eyes after counting to thirty, and saw to her shock that he was just looking at her, his one good eye dark and thoughtful.

"Then you know how I felt yesterday when I shot that fucker in the alley. And you know how I felt when I went after them. And you know how that ended. And you know why you can't go after them."

Something heavy settled in Karen's chest. "Yeah," she heard herself say, sounding broken.

"So what else do you want, besides a couple of heads on a dish?"

 It was easier, she felt, to think clearly locked in his arms. "I want you to stay here, first of all. Get better. And then we can probably talk about all this other stuff later. I'll—I'll write down starting points, and we can work through it later."

"Sounds like a plan, ma'am," he said, and let go of her.

She didn't move. She stayed where she was, her back pressed against his chest. "I—" she started, and turned her head toward his.

"You're right on a bruise," he said thinly, and she quickly scooted off his lap and to the sofa beside him.

"Sorry. I was going to say—I'm sorry I shot you." She flushed.

"Oh. Yeah. Uh, sorry I dragged you back into this mess." He pressed lightly on his nose as if to test the resilience, and winced.

"Don't mention it. You want pizza?" Karen gave his wrist a friendly squeeze and headed to grab her cell phone. "There's a great place down the street. They do delivery."

"At nine in the morning?  Atta girl." He cracked a grin. "Extra cheese, and some of those hot peppers."

"You got it," she said, and dialed.

~

After they'd demolished their pizza, Frank retreated to the bathroom to attempt a shower. Karen changed into real clothes (namely, a bra and pants) and began to research everything she could about the Marcus Martin shooting.

She'd just learned that the policeman who had been the first to open fire was a Sgt. William "Billy" Henderson who had been on the force for twenty years and had a curious history of questionable choices that somehow managed to amount to a department slap on the wrist of "suspended with full pay", when she heard a muffled cry and a thud from the bathroom.

"Frank?" she called out. No answer. Karen shut her computer and headed to the bathroom. "Frank, are you okay?"

"Slipped on a washcloth," came the haggard voice from behind the door. "Can't see."

"I'm coming in," she announced.

"I'm naked," he warned.

"If you weren't , that would be weird," she informed him, and opened the door.

Frank was sitting at an odd angle on the floor of her glass walled shower, one leg stuck straight out and the other bent at the knee. "Help," he said weakly. Both his eyes were shut tight and his hair was soapy.

"Hold on." Karen opened the door, leaned in, switched off the water, and tried very hard to not look down. "Okay. I'm gonna help you up. She reached her right arm down and touched his knee. "Grab my hand." Frank took it and used her arm as a rope to haul himself up, hand over hand as she braced herself against his weight with the door. "Okay. Let me get those out of your eyes. One second."

"Don't leave," he said before he could stop himself. Karen's hand lingered on his shoulder.

"I'm just stepping to the sink. I'm right here. Okay?"

"Yeah." Frank held on to the door and Karen wet a washcloth, then stepped back in to him.

"Hold still," she said, and wiped his eyes as carefully as she could without hurting him. Even so, he made a few pained noises as she washed the soap off. "Do you want me to help? I can do your hair."

"I'm fine," he said. "I just fell. It won't happen again."

"Okay. If you need me just—"

"I'm fine," he repeated, one hand covering his crotch. "Can you just—go, please—"

Karen backed out, embarrassed, and closed the door behind her.

She was just finishing writing down her list of names pulled from the shooting as potential interviewees when Frank limped out of the bedroom in a towel and sat on the sofa. "Hey, Page," he said. "Don't suppose you have any clothes that would fit me around?"

She smiled and put her pencil down. "Matter of fact, I did pick up some clothes about a month ago. I didn't know when you might come back, and I thought—well, I hope you're a large."

The clothes had been stashed in a large suitcase under her bed. She pulled it out and handed him a pair of gray sweats, a  men's tank top, a pair of boxers, and a pair of socks. "There's a hoodie in here, too. Everything's just gray and black. I figured black is easier to get bloodstains out of."

He took the clothes and stood there in his towel, looking touched. "Thank you," he said.

"You can go ahead and change," she said with her back turned. "Sorry about the bathroom."

"Yeah, well. You gotta do what you gotta do. Sorry for subjecting you to my sorry naked ass." She heard the towel hit the floor with a soft _flump_ and heard him hiss as he bent at the waist to pull on the boxers.

"It's—it was okay. I mean, I didn't mind it, not that I'm saying your ass was okay. I mean, it was okay, but not, you know, your ass. I mean me. I—I'm sorry. I'll shut up."

He chuckled, low and gravelly. "Page, the day you shut up is the day the world ends."

"Good, I'll hold off Doomsday forever," she shot back with a grin, and turned around. The sweatpants were very snug at the thighs, and the shirt hugged every muscle on his body. Karen felt like she should look away, even though that was ridiculous, since he was fully decent. "Comfy?"

He looked down. "Probably could have gone up a size. That's fine. It was considerate. I ain't complaining."

Karen smiled. "You get a nap. I have a list to work on."


	4. Chapter 4

By the time Sunday rolled around, they had settled into a comfortable rhythm. They'd get up late. Frank showered and changed his dressings. Karen cooked something for the pair of them, and they would sit down to eat and go over details about the Falconetti ring until late in the evening, when Karen showered and Frank would rummage in the kitchen and make them dinner.

She discovered he made an incredible grilled cheese, which he refused to give her the recipe for "otherwise I'd have no reason to come back", and that he was meticulous about cleaning. The table was exempt from that particular quirk, however. It was covered in maps and pictures, all drawn on and covered in Post-It notes.

By Monday, his bruising was down to green and yellow shadows and the swelling had receded enough so that he could make facial expressions that were recognizable again. Karen called in sick, and found most of her coworkers had done the same, which made her feel slightly less guilty about lying.

"So," Frank said, pointing at the map on her table, "this is the dock where they do most of the shipping out. Usually the MO is based on whatever their clients order. Makes it unpredictable. They work on a personal basis. This isn't done en masse."

"So if someone just…wants a person, they just give their contact, like, an order?  'I want someone with brown hair and blue eyes', and they go get them?" Karen leaned over and peered at the black and white image of Falconetti on the table. "From anywhere?"

"I've mapped it out, and it seems to be within about a mile radius of the docks on the Hudson. Easy pickup, easy transportation." Frank tapped a dot. "The latest one was close. Stage 48, that club right next to the docks. Girl named, uh, Sasha Campbell reported her roommate missing. Police were slow to act. Roommate disappears without a trace."

"And you think it was Falconetti?"

"The missing girl was a cute little blonde. You tell me." Frank tapped his pencil on the map absently. "NO reason for the police to be that slow. Two whole days after Campbell makes the report, and they finally get back to her. Bullshit."

"So where should we start? The club? Last person to see her?"

"I already went down that road. Dead end. Nobody who works there wants to talk about her." Frank sat back and crossed his arms. "Even after being threatened."

"Oh, yeah, can't imagine why," Karen said, just a little acerbically. "They're probably scared of something worse than the Punisher. We can assume Falconetti or someone acting in his place threatened them."

"Yup. Which leaves us Miss Campbell as our source, and let's hope we ain't too late to get to her. Time to suit up."

Karen raised an eyebrow. "You said 'we'."

"Yep. You're coming with me." Frank shoved back from the table and stood up. "Can't tell you to stay here, or you'll come anyway and get yourself into trouble. So you're coming with me where I can keep an eye on you."

"Can I at least keep your gun?" Karen asked.

His eyes narrowed. "I like that gun."

"I think I probably need more than one gun. For safety. Just in case." He didn't answer. "Come on, Frank. Please."

Frank heaved a sigh and rubbed his chin. "All right, fine," he said. "But if y' get one scratch on her…"

Karen rolled her eyes. "I'll be careful. I promise. I can handle a gun."

"You better be. Or else," he mock threatened, going for his black gear.

"What, you're gonna punish me?" Karen said, and bit down hard on her cheek as his back stiffened and went straight as a rod. "That—that came out wrong, I—"

"Jesus Christ, Karen," he said, in that voice of his that sounded like he'd been swallowing smoke and glass somewhere in the bottom of the Mariana Trench. "Just go get the gun and wear something black."

Karen escaped to the bedroom feeling like the world's biggest idiot, and pulled out a pair of black pants she'd bought on a whim at some point—they were the kind with built in kneepads and deep pockets. She changed and dragged out her only pair of sturdy boots from the back of her closet, pulled on a black tank top and a black fleece she usually wore for running, and was just tying up the boots when a gentle knock on the door interrupted her.

"Come in," she called. Frank pushed her door open and peered around it, dressed in everything but his painted vest.

"Uh, hey." He leaned against the doorframe, made as if to rest his hand on it, realized there was no good place to set his hand and awkwardly dropped it to his side. "I didn't mean to, uh, get all weird on you out there."

Her face blazed. "Oh, god. No, it's okay. I didn't think before I opened my mouth."

"No, no. I just mean that, y'know…" He blew out a breath and started over. "Well, first of all. No, I'm not gonna be angry if you scratch my gun. I _am_ gonna be real pissed if someone hurts you. So please try your best to not get hurt, and I'll do my best to protect you. Deal?"

"Deal," she said, and stood up. "Is this okay?"

"Lemme see." Frank stepped in and eyed her up and down critically. "You gotta adjust the tabs in your pants so they sit at the waist. Can I—?"

"Go for it," she said, and he knelt down almost reverently, reached up to pull her tank top above her waistline, and hesitated just for a second before thumbing into her waistband to find the little miniature belt in her waistband and pulling it tight.

_Oh, god._

His hands were warm and rough, but unthinkably gentle and deft as they carefully danced over her skin and adjusted her pants. "There," he said gruffly, and patted her side as if she was a horse.

Karen's right hand made a quick, abortive movement toward his. "Thank you," she said, and hoped her voice wasn't betraying her.

Frank looked up from her waist and his eyebrows creased together. "Sure thing, ma'am," he said, and stood up, seeming to fill the bedroom. "All right. Let's get you set up."

~

Twenty minutes later they were heading out the door, dressed in all black against the winter weather. Karen had thrown on a black coat to disguise her two sidearms strapped to her legs, and Frank was wearing his big leather duster. "We could have thrown on some eyeliner and pretended we were a couple of goths," Karen muttered to him on the street.

"I've been mistaken for a hipster now twice, never a goth. Might be fun," he said with a half grin.

"So where's the apartment?" Karen nestled her chin into her collar. The wind was brutal.

"Just follow me. We're taking a back way."

After several walks through back alleys, turnarounds, going in a circle for fifteen minutes and a dash through a warehouse ("to lose anyone who might be following us," Frank explained) they arrived at an apartment building and stepped up. Frank buzzed the door marked 2C. "You ask to be let in," he said to Karen. "People are more likely to let in a nice lady."

" _Who is it?"_ asked a fearful female voice.

Karen pressed the button down. "Hi, Miss Campbell? My name is Karen Page, I'm a reporter for the Bulletin. I want to ask you a couple of questions about your friend."

There was a long silence. " _Who's the man with you?"_

Frank stepped back and looked up. There was a camera installed just above the door.

Karen looked up too. "This is my colleague. His name is Pete. We just want to talk."

"That's a new camera," said Frank. "Recently installed."

There was a crackle, a long static sound, and then Karen's heart leaped into her mouth as Sasha Campbell cried, " _Please! Help me! They have—"_

The static cut out, and a shot somewhere in the building rang out.

"Oh, _fuck,_ " swore Frank, and unholstered his gun. "Karen. Get behind me and stay close. Get your gun out. Gun _out._ "

Karen obeyed, her heart pounding. Frank kicked the door down and headed straight for the stairs, Karen following a step behind him all the way up to the second floor.

2C looked undisturbed. The door was shut. Frank and Karen split apart, went to opposite sides of the door, and waited.

"On my signal," Frank said softly. "I'm going in. You stay out here, you got that? No matter what. Stay here. Cover the door. If someone comes out who ain't me, you put some lead in him."

"Got it," she breathed, and Frank reached out for her, squeezed her arm, then turned and kicked the door off its hinges.

Karen reeled back as Frank dashed in and gunfire rang out inside the apartment. She heard a soft whizz and turned to see a bullet hole on the wall just by her left ear. "Shit, shit, shit," she said and laid flat on the floor, still holding the gun out.

Someone burst through the door. It wasn't Frank. She fired. The man fell.

 _That was easy,_ she thought in surprise. _That's the adrenaline,_ said a tiny part of her mind.

Someone was yelling inside and more gunfire rang out. Smoke was filling the building. A door down the hall opened and someone screamed, "What's going on?"

"Get out!" screamed Karen, half deaf from the gunfire. "Get out! Go get inside! Go!"

The person disappeared, back to the safety of their own apartment. Karen turned back around and saw someone limping for the exit stairwell. She brought up the gun, aimed, and fired. He went down.

She became aware that the gunfire inside had gone silent, and was just turning to peer into the door when someone grabbed her. Karen screamed and elbowed him in the stomach, but he was wearing a bulletproof vest and her elbow bounced off. She yelled again, this time in pain.

"Hey! Let her go, you son of a bitch!" She turned her head and saw Frank being held down by three guys in black, straining and kicking. "You fucking—"

One of them punched him in the jaw, re-opening his cut lip. Blood sprayed over Frank's cheek. Karen ripped her left arm out of her captor's grip, flailed about for a second, caught hold of the combat knife he had stashed on his belt, and drove it into his exposed neck without a single thought.

She could feel it dragging through muscle and flesh, and she did not stop until she felt the blade jar up against bone.

The man dropped like a puppet, and gushed blood from his neck over the carpet.

Frank roared, and Karen fell on her ass as he jerked his left arm free and got his hand around the throat of one of his captors.

"Grab her!" screamed one of the others, and the third guy let go of Frank to grab at Karen, wrapping his arm around her neck. She dropped the knife by her boot and reached up, gagging and choking.

This was a mistake.

Frank squeezed so hard that the neck of the man he was holding snapped like a piece of candy. He dropped to the floor unmoving. The remaining man pulled his gun out and aimed it at Frank. "Don't move!" he yelled. "Hands up. Hands up!"

Karen's vision was going black. She reached out with her foot, felt the handle of the knife, and held it there.

"Let her go," Frank said between bloody lips, "and I'll consider letting you live."

"You're in no place to bargain for shit, you—"

Karen, with her last breath, kicked out, and the knife went flying across the floor.

Soft, sinking blackness overcame her.

~

" _Karen. Karen. Hey, Karen_."

Karen jerked awake and choked in a breath. Her neck was sore and her windpipe was aching. "Why am I on the floor?" she rasped.

Frank was kneeling above her, his head backlit by a floor lamp. It gave him a halo, like some kind of saint. Saint Frank, the Avenging Angel. Although she was pretty sure saints didn't walk around with blood streaked down their faces, dressed in black. "Don't move," he said, and she felt his hand cupping the side of her face, her neck. "Move your foot for me. Wanna make sure nothing's broken."

"You're bleeding," she said.

"It ain't my blood. Roll your ankle, Page."

She swallowed and rolled her booted feet back and forth. "Good?"

"Yeah. Okay. Easy does it. Up you go." He carefully pulled her upright to sit, and she clutched at his arm.

"Oh, god," she said, looking at the bodies.

"I got information outta them first. Falconetti hired them to stake the place out. They came in here today and held her hostage."

"Why?"

"Because someone else got here first, and they had his phone tapped." Frank stood up and extended his hand. "I'll show you. I'll warn you, it ain't pretty."

Karen stood and followed him to the tiny bathroom. Makeup was still strewn on the counter, a magazine was on the floor. And a dead man was in the bathtub.

"Oh, my god," she said. He was youngish, wearing a sweater and a button down shirt. His glasses were on the floor, crushed by a boot. Both his eyes were open and staring, and coagulated black blood soaked the front of his sweater, oozing from his slit throat.

"Yeah. I figure he showed up after calling her and got himself killed. They kept her alive for god knows how long—probably an hour or two after he died, and then we showed up as a surprise."

"She warned us," said Karen numbly. "She knew they would shoot her, and she warned us anyway."

"Yeah, she did." Frank took Karen's elbow and guided her over to the bedroom of the apartment. Karen saw bare feet, resting on the foot of the bed. "it's ugly. Fair warning." She barely heard him. She stepped through the door and covered her mouth with her hand.

Sasha Campbell had been probably twenty-two or twenty-three, with curly red hair and freckles. She was wearing a long sleeved sweatshirt that read NOT TO BE RUDE BUT I DON'T CARE and striped leggings. The right side of her head was missing, blown out in a gaping exit wound from the tiny bullet hole on her left temple. Her red hair was matted down by blood.

"I, uh. I shouldn't have, but I moved her. I thought—I thought she deserved a better resting place than the living room floor till the cops show up." Frank stepped in and touched Karen's shoulder. "We gotta go."

"Did you close her eyes?" asked Karen thickly.

"Yeah. I did. Let's go."

"Frank." Karen closed her eyes. A deep, pounding pain was making itself known somewhere below her left shoulder blade, something unmistakably wrong somewhere.

"Are you gonna faint on me, Page?" Frank threw her arm over his shoulder and stepped out. "C'mon. Step by step. Atta girl."

They made it to the exit stairwell, where Karen lurched forward and threw up on the wall. "Sorry," she gasped in between retching noises.

"Don't be sorry," he said, and hitched her closer before getting her down the stairs, bump by bump, and to the ground floor. "I don't know how you managed to aim that knife at me while you were blacking out, but I owe you one."

"Frank," she said tightly.

"No, I mean it." He shifted and opened the door, flooding them both with light. "You seriously, honest-to-God, saved my ass—"

"Frank," she whispered, a little more urgently, blinking like an owl in the sun as distant sirens approached. "Shelve it. Please. We can. Talk. Later." Breathing was hard. It hurt. It hurt so much.

"Karen?" He looked down at her, worry etched into every line of his hard face. "What—"

"I've been shot," she said, and both her knees buckled, pitching her forward into Frank Castle's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys. Almost 2k hits and 150 kudos already?? This fic is THREE DAYS OLD LOL. You're killing me. Next chapter will be through Frank's lens, just to mix things up. Hold on for the ride!


	5. Chapter 5

Frank kicked open the door to Karen's apartment, Karen flung over his shoulder like a doll.

_Analyze. Step One: find the problem._

He lowered her to the kitchen floor and turned her over, holding her up with one hand and probing her back with the other. His bare fingers came away dark red. He stripped off her coat as quickly as he could, then her fleece, then her tank top. Her bare skin was almost translucent in the light, delicate as bone china and twice as precious.

_Step two: assess the damage._

Frank stared at the blood and cleanly torn flesh in her upper back and wished he knew who's gun had fired the shot, so he could go back and stomp their fuckin' faces into hamburger. "Karen," he said. "You with me?" It hadn't been a clean shot. The bullet had grazed her back, but it was a gash about two inches long and freely bleeding.

She didn't respond. He felt for her pulse, and it was there but it was weak, fluttery. "Goddammit," he rasped, and cupped her face in his broad palm. "Karen. C'mon. I need you to stay with me. Eyes open, sweetheart. Let's go."

One of her eyes flickered, and both blinked open. "Frank."

_Step three. Fix the problem._

"Hey, hey. Shh. I need you to stay awake for me, okay?" He was grabbing for the vodka, the towels, anything in reach. The tweezers. The needle and thread. "I gotta get this stitched together."

"Did you call me 'sweetheart'?" she asked, sounding fuzzy and dreamlike.

"Yep, 'cause you're gonna be cussing up a storm when I'm done, so might as well be sweet now." Frank squatted back down and unhooked her bloodstained bra, sliding it off her shoulders. "Okay, Miss Page. I need you to roll over for me. On your stomach."

"I'm cold," she said feebly.

"We'll get you nice and warm after this, I promise. Here we go." He got a hand under her and gently helped her down to the linoleum, where she lay shivering like a fish, a bloody mess on her back. "All right. Deep breath. This is gonna hurt."

He pressed a vodka soaked cloth to her wound, and she bucked and let out a scream of agony. "Shh, shh. Here, bite this." He shoved a washcloth between her teeth and placed a hand on her waist as he continued to clean out the bullet hole. Karen made an awful noise and slammed her fist on the floor. "Don't tense up. I know, I know it hurts but you gotta be still."

"Fuck you," groaned Karen through her teeth and washcloth. "Fuck you, Frank."

"Yep, fuck me all right," he agreed, getting out the needle. "You say whatever you want as long as you hold still."

"Oh, fucking hell goddammit," she groaned as the needle pierced raw skin. "Shit. Fuck. _Fuck,_ Frank."

"I know, I know," he repeated. He had just caught hold of the thread and was drawing it through when a sharp knock on the door startled them both.

"What the hell—" he began, and Karen clenched her fist.

"Peephole," she managed, and Frank dropped the needle before looking out.

"Looks like some woman," he said _sotto voce._

"Oh, god," Karen said. "Mrs. DiAngelo."

"Italian lady with eyeglasses on a string?"

"Yeah. Shit."

"Hold on," he said, and got a blanket from the living room and spread it over Karen before stepping to the sink and rinsing his face and hands clean of blood.

"Just a minute!" Karen called out with surprising strength, then fell back to the floor, whey-faced and exhausted.

Frank opened the door. Mrs. DiAngelo stood there in her housecoat, looking very disapproving.

"Who are _you_?" she demanded.

"I'm, uh," said Frank, who obviously hadn't rehearsed his lines.

Mrs. DiAngelo's lips pursed into a lemony pucker. "Karen's _boyfriend_ , I assume? And what on earth are you doing so loudly at this hour?"

Frank blinked and opened his mouth a few times, then pointed to Karen, visibly naked from the waist up and covered in a sheet on the floor. Karen managed a convincing smile and a wave.

Mrs. DiAngelo stared at Karen, then at Frank, then crossed herself, eyes bugging. "I don't want to know!" she insisted. "You two should be ashamed of yourselves, carrying on for the entire building to hear! What on earth's wrong with a bedroom?"

Frank swallowed. "Well, uh, we were planning to end up there, ma'am."

Looking deeply offended, Mrs. DiAngelo puffed up like a blowfish. "I don't care to hear! Screaming and banging and such, my goodness! Can't hear my soaps with the racket!" She turned on her heel and took three steps, then turned back. "It's not even _three in the afternoon_!" she spluttered, and retreated back into the shadows of the hallway.

Frank shut the door and bolted it, then turned to Karen. "It's not even three in the afternoon," he informed her sagely, and Karen pressed her hand to her face and tried hard not to laugh.

"Shit," she gasped in pain between fits of giggling. "Now she thinks I'm a fornicating alcoholic. Wonderful."

"Alcoholic?" Frank crouched down again to sweep the blanket off and tie off his thread.

"She caught me as I was holding the vodka bottle the night you showed up. I had to think of something."

Frank snorted. "Well, I'd say she'll be leaving us alone for a while. Let me do the rest of these stitches, and I'll let you rest."

He hated every minute of stitching Karen back up. She tried her hardest to not move, but every stitch in her flesh was like twelve in his, especially when she whimpered into the washcloth and his hands—

\--hands that never missed, hands that never faltered—

\--stopped moving and trembled for a half second.

 _What is wrong with me?_ he thought angrily as he tied off the last stitch. _Losing my goddamn mind over Karen Page._

"Is it over?" Karen asked weakly from somewhere to his right.

"Yes, ma'am, it's over. Let's get you cleaned up and on the couch." He taped down a gauze pad to her wound and she pushed herself up with both hands, trembling. Her bra dangled off her shoulders and collapsed in a heap around her wrists. Frank barely noticed. "Easy, easy," he said, and lifted her by her armpits until she was standing, shivering and topless and still splattered with blood, in the kitchen.

There was still a great deal of crusted blood across the right side of her face. It was stuck in her hair. "Did you get hit in the head?" Frank asked, concerned. His fingers probed into her hairline but found nothing.

"That's not my blood," Karen said. "I think that's from when I stabbed—stabbed that guy in the neck."

"Well, let's get you cleaned up at least," Frank said. "Careful when you walk. Don't move your left arm. All those important muscles in your back are mad at you right now."

"I need a sling," she said, and took several hobbled steps toward the bedroom.

"I'll make you one," he promised, holding onto her good elbow. "You can tell everyone at work you fell in the street, or something."

"While being an alcoholic," she muttered, and chuckled.

He had to laugh back. "No, no, a _fornicating_ alcoholic."

She leaned against him as they got to the bathroom and he set her down on the floor so he could run the tub. "Oh god, everything hurts."

"Yep, that's about right." Frank stood to wet a hot washcloth and knelt down by her. "Okay, let's see that face. He tried to be as careful as possible, scrubbing the dried blood off her face and arms and neck.

"Frank," she said dreamily, as he moved to scrub blood off her hands. Her little hands found his and held them. "Thank you."

An enormous lump in his throat threatened to choke him. Was she really sitting here thanking him? "I almost got you killed, Miss Page," he said hoarsely, and wrapped her hands in the washcloth. "Don't you thank me for that. I'm not doing it again."

"You can say it," she said, her eyes closed. Her skin was whiter than normal, her lips gone floury. The beauty mark just above her lip stood out in stark contrast. "Say it, Frank."

"Say what?" he asked, and soaked another hot washcloth to put on her neck. Her hands were freezing. He had to bring her body temperature back up.

"Say 'I told you so'," she whispered.

He felt his mouth lift in a half smile. "All right. I told you so. Happy?"

Her eyes opened, wide and round and blue. "Are you?"

Frank swallowed and turned off the bathwater. "No, I ain't," he said. "Bathtime. Ready?"

"I have to take off my pants," she said blearily, and patted at her legs.

"I'll take care of that for you," he said, and first untied her boots, slipping them off. Then off came her socks. "Okay. You still with me?"

"Yeah," she said, legs stretched out and head resting on the tub. "Here." She reached down one handed and fumbled with the button and zipper, getting both undone. "Just pull," she whispered.

Frank tugged on one pant leg, then the other, lifting her ass a little until the pants were down to her knees before pulling them off her completely. It was like—he remembered suddenly, long car rides home from adventures with the kids, and Frank Jr. fast asleep in his seat, so Frank had to carry him up to bed and get him changed into his pajamas, the tugging on a slack body while trying to not wake him up—

"Frank," said Karen Page from miles away, and he realized his vision was blurred with hot tears.

"'M fine," he grunted, and blinked the tears out of his eyes so that they ran down his cheeks instead. He sniffed. "Fine." Her underwear was bloodstained too, stains across the front and side. "Lemme get those off you."

Karen closed her eyes and let him lift her and shift her to pull off her underwear, and with the slight _fwump_ of them hitting the bloodstained clothes pile, she was completely naked in front of him.

It wasn't like he could just pretend she wasn't. His face burned, and in spite of himself he felt a surge of arousal and gritted his teeth. She was bloody and half-awake and recovering from a GSW, _for fuck's sake, Castle, get ahold of yourself._   _It’s the adrenaline from the fight,_ he told himself, and scooted forward. "Let's get you in the tub," he ordered."

"Okay," she said, one eye opening, and he guided her inch by inch into the tub and set her in the water. Her bandage was above the water line, but she still gasped in pain as she moved.

"There we go. Soak for a little. You got any Epsom salts?"

"Under the kitchen sink," she said dreamily. He checked the bathroom for any possibly entry points, and finding none he stood up.

"I'll be back in a second. You stay put." He squeezed her shoulder and hurried into the kitchen, where he found the bag of Epsom salts and made a mental note to clean the floor up.

Back in the bathroom, she was exactly how he'd left her. "Hey," she said weakly, her good arm rising up in a half wave.

"Hey," he said, and shook out the salts into the water. "All right, you soak in this. I gotta clean myself up."

"Will you—will you stay where I can see you?" she asked.

"Sure," he said. "I'll stay right here. Steal all your hot water and make a big ol' mess."

She giggled and winced. "Oh, god. Yeah, go ahead."

~

Fifteen minutes later he'd stripped down to his boxers and managed to scrub off most of the blood. He was sporting a new bruise on his ribs and stomach, and his re-opened split lip was swollen. He poked at it in the mirror. Half shaved head, busted lip, bruised up face. "Frank, you're one ugly sumbitch," he said to himself under his breath.

"If you have to shower," came Karen's voice from behind him, "I can close my eyes."

He looked behind him in the mirror and  saw her sitting in the tub, her right arm draped across her chest. "I'd, uh, I'd appreciate that."

She gave a sort of little half smile and turned to the side, her eyes shut.

He hooked his thumbs into his boxers and dropped them, wincing at the fresh bruise on his upper thigh before stepping to the shower and turning it on.

It wasn't that he didn't want _her_ seeing him bare ass nude, he thought as he waited for the water to heat up. It was just…once a person saw you naked, he felt, it was a sort of loss of armor. Your guard down. Vulnerability. They realize you're not anything more or less than a human being, and that was a card he wasn't quite willing to surrender, even to Karen Page.

Not yet, at least.

The water was steaming. He stepped in and groaned as the spray swallowed his body.

"You okay?" came Karen's voice, muffled through the glass doors.

"I'm perfect," he said, and threw his head back, enjoying the sting on his cuts. There was blood dripping off him, pink water pooling around his feet. "I'm staying here forever."

Several comfortable minutes passed, and he stepped out of the shower clean and dripping wet. Karen was still in the tub, and turned her face blindly toward him. "You out?"

"Yeah. One second." He grabbed a towel, secured it around his waist, and sneaked a quick glance into the mirror. "All right. Open up."

Karen blinked her eyes open and he didn't miss her furtive once-over of his wet body. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," he answered, and scooped up the dirty clothes. "I'll just take these to the washer. Be right back."

"Frank," she said, and he froze. "They can wait."

He set the clothes down. "Wh—"

She stood up, all in one lurch, wobbling like a newborn deer. The water in the tub sloshed. He fought to keep his composure. "Karen—"

"Help me get out," she said, extending her good arm. "Please. I'm freezing."

Frank stepped over and took her hand. She lifted one foot, the other one slid hard down the curve of the tub, and she fell full force into him with a pained shout. "Got you, I got you," he said, half panicked, and held her against his chest while she regained her footing and stumbled out of the tub.

"God, it's like I need an old person walk in tub," she joked, lifting her body away from his, and it was at that exact second that his towel fell off, slapping to the tile in a heap. Instinctively, he yanked her back toward him as cover, pressing her close.

They both froze. He became hideously, suddenly aware that her nipples were cold, hard, and poking into his chest. Her left hand was up by his right shoulder, arm bent at the elbow to avoid movement, and her right was touching his left side. Slowly, hesitantly, her hand traced up his side.

Her face was so close. So close, he could reach out and kiss her if he wanted. He couldn't speak. He couldn't break the spell. Heat was surging into his lower body. _Fuck you, asshole,_ he thought murderously at his own dick, which was reacting more normally than either of them.

Karen lowered her eyes and turned her head. Her breath was warm on his cheek. He'd never realized they were almost the same height before. She had always seemed so small. He wanted—he wanted—

She put her face up, lips open; her nose brushed his. He pressed his forehead to hers, cupped her head with his right hand. _Do something,_  he begged her silently, unable to speak. _Decide. Decide for me. I can't._ He didn't have a right to do this. He didn't have a right to her body, to her—no matter how much he wished he did, how much he wished she would—

"It's not even three in the afternoon," she said softly, right next to his cheek, and it caught him so off guard that he laughed out loud, then drew her in for a tight embrace.

"Jesus Christ, Karen," he said into her wet hair and neck before letting her go and ducking down for his towel. "Okay, bedtime for you. I'm staying up. You got work in the morning."

"Don't remind me," she said, and smiled before grabbing her own towel. "See you in the morning, Frank. And—thank you, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said dismissively, with a wave. "Don't roll over in your sleep. It'll mess with the stitches. Sleep well."

Karen stepped over quick, pressed a firm kiss to his cheek, and stepped away like she was afraid he might explode. "Night," she said firmly, and stiffly legged it to the bedroom, leaving him standing there with his mouth open in stunned surprise, one hand reaching up to touch the spot she'd kissed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY ALL! Wow I really cannot believe the amount of subs on this. I am going to try to post updates on any or both of the following: Tuesdays, Thursdays, and definitely weekends. My schedule is a bit bonkers at the moment, as I'm trying to find a second job before I lose my first one in December and nobody is hiring: if you're like "lol why is dis bitch updating like a crazy person with no pattern" that's why. I hope you enjoy the nice long chapter, and stay tuned!

Pain. God, everything hurt.

Karen forced her eyes open. Her alarm was going off. It was seven in the morning.

"Oh, god, no," she begged, and grit her teeth as she pulled herself upright. It was still barely light. "Frank?"

There was no answer. She rubbed her eyes with her right hand and turned on her light. On the nightstand stood a glass of water, two white pills, and a note. She picked it up and squinted at it.

_Page-  
 Had to go. Take these and go to work. I'll be back tonight. Watch yourself. The guns are in your purse. Stay safe._

Under that, he had written what might have been an L or and I, scribbled it out and then simply wrote _Frank._

Karen  peered at the pills. Oxycodone. She narrowed her eyes and took one on the way to the kitchen, stashing the other in her purse.

The apartment had been scrubbed clean. She marveled at the efficiency, and set her glass back in the sink.

Getting dressed was an ordeal, but it became easier once the Oxy kicked in and she could focus on buttoning her shirt instead of crying. She dragged on a pair of soft slacks, socks, and running shoes. She didn't care what she looked like as long as it was comfortable. On the way out the door she grabbed her purse and black coat, realized the latter still had a bullet tear in the back, and grabbed another one.

There was no way she'd be walking to work today. She flagged down a cab and asked him to take her to the Bulletin.

~

Thankfully, it was still staffed with a bit of a skeleton crew. She didn't have anyone judging her choice of shoe.

"Hey, Karen. You all right? Look a little rough." Ellison was poking his head into her office.

"Took a fall down the stairs in my building yesterday," she said with a smile. "Bruised myself pretty badly."

"Damn. Escape the mess here and take a hit, huh?"

"Do we know anything about who did it?" Karen asked, sifting through her emails.

"Oh, I guess the cops questioned everyone and decided it might be, you know. ISIS or something." Ellison shrugged. "Let me bring you a coffee. You look like you need one."

"Thanks, Ellison," she said distantly. ISIS. Okay. Sure. Even after _her_ statement—"

Wait. Her statement. " _Tell the police it was Benny Falconetti's thugs."_ He hadn't known. He hadn't fucking _known_ and then—

They knew. They knew she knew. They'd known for days.

Fuck. _Fuck._

"Karen?" Ellison was holding a mug of coffee. "You look like you've just seen a ghost."

"I think someone might be following me," she said. "Give me that fucking coffee."

~

Karen left at two, claiming a headache. She didn't bother waiting for a cab on the sidewalk, just hurried as fast as she could down the sidewalk. Where the hell was Frank? She tried to call him. His phone was either off or dead.

Panic rising in her throat, she went in a full circle around a city block, then cut through an alley to make it back to her apartment. She checked her watch. She usually made it home around five, and it was almost four.

"Karen," said a husky voice to her left, and she jumped. "Don't react. Don't look at me. Walk."

"But—"

"They're in the apartment. They're trying to arrest you on a bullshit charge. Keep walking. Don't look at me. Look at the ground." He had on a knit cap that covered his head down to his eyebrows, and his chin was tucked into his collar, she could see out of her peripheral vision. "I'm going to drop something and walk. You pick it up, put it on like you dropped it, and follow me, but don't catch up. Got it?"

"Yes," she said, and stopped dead, looking down. He'd dropped a gray knit cap, like his. She knelt down, grabbed it with cold fingers, popped it on her head and shoved all her blond hair inside, dragging it down to her cheekbones.

She got up and saw his broad back, walking through the people on the sidewalk. She followed it all the way to the corner, where he paused, looked both ways, and turned right.

Karen reached the same corner, pretended to check her watch, and turned right. He was visible fifteen feet ahead, leisurely walking. She followed him. They were so close to the next intersection. Just a few more feet.

Frank stopped at the intersection. She took another step. Another. Ten more and she'd be safe.

Someone body checked her and she stumbled back. "Miss Karen Page?" he asked.

"What?" she said stupidly. He wasn't wearing a uniform. He was in plainsclothes, with a baseball cap on.

He flashed a badge. "I'm Officer Munson. You're under arrest."

"What? Why?" She jerked in pain as another undercover officer cuffed her hands behind her back. "Let me see the warrant."

Officer Munson grabbed her left arm and bodily jerked her toward the street and the waiting unmarked car. "You can see it at the station."

"Let go of me," she demanded. "Let _go_ of me!"

Frank. She looked up in terror as they shoved her into the back seat. He was standing on the street, his hands clenched into fists, looking right at her.

 _I'm coming for you,_ he mouthed, clear as day, and she only had time to draw in a breath before they slammed the door shut and she was shrouded in darkness.

~

They had taken her to a station she'd been too in pain to notice the location of, and she was cuffed to a table in a holding room and left there. The second Oxy was wearing off fast, and her back burned like fire.

"Miss Page. We want to know who you've been talking to." The officer in front of her was a fuzzy, faceless mass with glasses. "We know you didn't act alone in that alley."

"Oh, did the guy I let go march down to the police station and tell you all about it?" she fired back, hurting too much to bother with subtlety. It had been hours, and they kept asking her the same questions. "Or have you been chatting up Benny Falconetti?"

"There's no need to be difficult." The officer drummed his fingers on the table. "Come now, Miss Page. You can behave, can't you? Just tell us who you were working with, and we'll let you go home. Don't you want to go home?"

"No," she said. "I want to sit right here and I want to see my warrant."

"You're not seeing your warrant," he informed her. "If you refuse to cooperate you'll be charged with obstruction of justice. You were in possession of a stolen firearm—"

"That was a friend's," she snapped.

"If you refuse to cooperate," he said more forcefully, "we will have no choice but to place you under arrest."

"Color me surprised," she said. "That’s fine. I'll sit here. I'm not a black male college student, or you would have gunned me down in the fucking street like a dog for interfering with your bullshit racket. But thank you very much for the offer to let me go home. As if you people haven't bugged every room in my apartment by now."

"Miss Page—"

"Do you think I'm fucking stupid?" she snapped. "We can sit here all day. I can wait."

"Wait for what, Miss Page?"

She let a slow smile creep across her face. "Whoever you think I've been talking to, of course."

The officer with the glasses left. She exhaled and clenched her fist. Sitting hurt like hell. It was eight PM, going by her watch. Four hours of detainment. That was okay. She could wait. He was coming. He'd promised.

A second officer burst into the room fifteen minutes later. "Who the hell have you been talking to?" he demanded, slamming his fists on the table.

Karen looked up at him, too tired to care. "Oh, look. It's the bad cop."

He slapped her across the face. It stung, but not too bad. Then she brought her face back front, and he punched her, closed fist, right hook. Her teeth sheared through the inside of her cheek and she spit a gob of blood onto the table. "Tell us the name of the man who shot the suspect, and we can stop playing this game."

She gathered her composure and raised her chin. "Sergeant Billy Henderson," she said, and watched his face flicker from cold anger into shock and suspicion.

He grabbed her by the hair and yanked. "Tell me now," he snarled. "Or your pretty face is going straight down on this fucking table."

"Well, if you do that," she said, "I won't be able to talk, now will I?"

He unhooked the billy club at his waist and cracked her over the head with it.

Karen saw stars and her vision blurred. "There's no need to be in a hurry," she managed through a shaky voice and eyes full of tears. "He's coming over anyway."

"What do you mean, he's coming over?" demanded the officer.

Karen spit another blood clot onto the table. At least she still had all her teeth. "He's coming for me. And anything you do to me, he's gonna do to you, only ten times worse."

"If you don't—" began the officer, and the lights all went out in the cell, followed instantly by emergency red lighting and a low, urgent emergency alarm. The officer's demeanor changed immediately. "What the hell," he muttered, and buzzed the intercom to the outside of the door. "Mullins? What the hell's going on out there?"

Silence. Static. He jabbed it again. "Mullins! Answer me!"

Karen's heart rose in hope. Everything hurt so badly, but he was _here_. She couldn’t help it. She was half hysterical. "Go on!" she yelled, voice pitching into a cackle. "Go on out there! Go say hi!" She banged her hands on the table and felt her hair sticking to the blood on her face. "Go the fuck out there and say hi to my friend, you blue assed, two faced, corrupt fucking _son of a bitch_!"

He made toward her, brandishing the baton. "If you don't shut the fuck up—"

_Boom._

There was someone on the other side of the door. It was heavy, metal, bulletproof. Someone was slamming against it.

_Boom._

Karen's heart rose, only to plummet when the officer unholstered his pistol and jammed it under her chin. "You come in here and I'll blow her fucking head off!" he screamed. He stank of fear. "I'll fucking do it!"

Silence from the other side. Karen could hear the officer breathing, right into her ear, and felt the tremble of his hands.

 _Frank,_ she had time to think in the space of three breaths, and then the door exploded.

Her chair tipped sideways as the officer pushed her to cover himself, but her hands were still chained to the table. She slid out of the chair and slammed her chin against the metal edge, her knees buckling.

The officer fired. Once. Twice. The room was full of smoke and tasted of gunpowder. Karen coughed and choked, trapped between her chair and the table. Her legs kicked back frantically, seeking purchase on the floor, and she couldn't move her head. "Frank," she sobbed out. Every breath was agony.

There was a soft noise to her right and she caught a glimpse of black leather and a skull-painted vest before the officer started screaming. With a loud crash, a body hit the table. "Please, please don't—" His begs for mercy were cut off by a strangled sound and fists beating the table in a frenzy, and Karen finally managed to get her leg under her and staggered up to her feet.

"Frank," she gasped, and Frank looked up from where he was hell-bent on strangling the man to death. "Frank. Please."

He looked furious, and torn. He looked down at the officer, back at her, and let go of the guy's throat. "He's gotta pay," he said, in a voice that sounded miles away and worn ragged. "He laid hands on you."

"They're gonna have backup," she pleaded. "We have to go."

"I'm not finished," he snapped, and pulled out a knife. With one quick movement, the cop was shoved up against the wall, and Frank neatly pinned his left ear to it. "I got a message for you," he said, grabbing his chin. "You get to live. You run back to Falconetti. You tell him the Punisher knows every corrupt cop, every back alley in Hell's Kitchen better than he thinks he does. And now he's fucked up. He and his little club made it personal. And I'm coming for every last one of the goddamn bastards."

"Yes, yes, I got it—"

"Good. Where's the keys?"

"Keys?" The cop shook his head in confusion.

Frank slapped him across the face. "I'm taking the lady with me. Keys. Now."

"My pocket," he wheezed. Frank rummaged and came up with the keys.

"These keys?"

"Yeah, please, just—just go—"

Frank pulled out his pistol. "Thanks," he said, and whacked the man over the head with the butt. The cop sagged, lifeless, held up only by the cartilage of his ear to the wall.

"He better wake up fast if he doesn't wanna lose his ear," Frank said as he unlocked Karen's cuffs. "Easy, now. You're all right. You look like hell. Where are you hurt?"

"Everywhere," she gasped through gritted teeth, and rubbed her freed, aching wrists. "Oh, god."

"You can hold off reading me the riot act till we get back to your place. I've already been by and de-bugged it. Long story. But it's safe. Let's go." Frank wrapped his left arm around her back, under her arms, and lifted her up. She threw her good arm around his shoulders and tried to get her weight on her feet enough to walk. "No broken bones?"

"Don't think so," she forced out. "Oh, Christ. Fuck." Her back was burning, her chin was throbbing. "Don't supposed you've got any more Oxy on you."

"I ain't making an addict out of you, Page," he said as they shuffled down the hallway, past dead bodies. Dead bodies in blue. "I stole a car. We can drive to your block and ditch it, have it towed."

"Did you kill the whole station?" Karen clung to him in shock.

"'Course not. Left the receptionists alive to call for backup. Nice ladies. They're hiding in someone's office. Oh, and your buddy back there, of course."

They stepped into the pen area, and Karen squinted through the smoke. "You don't think a giant white spray-painted skull on the wall is overkill?"

"Nah. Gets the message across in case our buddy doesn't make it." Frank got her through the room and out to the lobby, then down to the street and around the corner to where a black SUV was waiting.

"Here we go." Frank set Karen into the passenger side and fumbled with the belt buckle. "Let me—"

"Frank, I can buckle myself in, just drive," she gasped, and he hurried around to the other side and got in. Tears of pain were gathering in her eyes. "Christ," she groaned. "Drive, drive."

Frank started the engine and rolled away down the street, looking both ways. "Try not to touch anything," he warned. "They'll probably dust for prints. Fortunately, you were taken in off record, but still."

Tears were pouring down her face. "Okay," she gasped, and clenched her teeth together.

"Are—are you cryin' 'cause you're hurt, or did I say something?" Frank's worried face swiveled around to peer at her.

"Both," she hissed. "Don't make me talk."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and they didn't speak again until he rolled up to her building and parked down the side street. "Side door for us. I'll get you, don't move."

Karen blindly reached out for him as the door opened and he unbuckled her, then eased her out and onto the ground. "I can't," she said, and her knees buckled.

"I got you," he said, and swept her up in a bridal carry, kicking the door shut. "You got keys?"

"Here," she said, and he squatted so she could unlock the side door to the building before carrying her inside and up the stairwell to her door.

~

Her apartment was a disaster, the careful order of the morning gone in a rush of upturned lamps and sideways picture frames. She barely noticed, she was in so much pain.

Frank set her down on her bed and tugged off her shoes. "Don't move till I get a look at your stitches," he warned, and opened her coat. Blood stained her right side, through her shirt. "Damn," he said under his breath, and lifted her with one hand, sliding the coat off with the other and laying her back down.

"It hurts," she whispered.

"I know, sweetheart," he said, and unbuttoned her shirt to reveal a stain of blood. "I think you pulled your stitches. Roll over for me."

Karen rolled, her fists clenched in her duvet. "Oh, god," she moaned as he lifted her shirt away from her back.

"Popped just one. Not bad. I can fix that easy." She heard the crackle of his first aid pack, and closed her eyes in anticipation of the needle. "Hold still for me."

"I can't," she whispered, and jerked when he touched her back. "Shit, Frank—"

"Easy, shh. I'll get you some meds as soon as we're done, but I gotta get this closed." He laid a hand on her, waited until she stopped shaking, and then proceeded to repair the torn stitch quickly and efficiently while she cried silently with her teeth clenched together into her bed.

"Please," she croaked hoarsely as soon as she could.

Frank let his hand linger for just a second longer than was absolutely necessary on her, and handed her a single oval white pill. "Vicodin. You only get one. Got it?"

"Yes," she gasped, and struggled to her knees to wash it down with a glass of water he got from the bathroom.

"You should call in sick tomorrow," Frank said. "Probably the next day, too."

"Am I safe?" she asked, turning her head.

He didn't answer.

"Frank," she said. "Am I safe here? Tell me."

"Yes," he said, and sat on the bed. "Yes, Karen. 'Course you are. I'm here."

"Stay here," she croaked. "Don't leave me alone again. Don't leave me." There were more tears coming. She didn't bother wiping her face, which she knew was already a mess of blood and snot. "Promise me, Frank. Don't go."

"I won't go," he said, and reached out, cupping her neck and face in his hand. "Hey. Page. Look at me. I'm not going anywhere. I promise you that."

She shut her eyes and reached up to cover his hand with hers, then leaned into his palm, tears still falling. "Good," she managed, and Frank kicked his boots off, then slid over to her, kneeling.

"I've got you," he said, and cupped the back of her head with his other hand, holding her close against his chest. "Shh, Page. I've got you. You're safe. As long as I'm here, hand to God, nothing's gonna touch you, and—" His voice broke, and she clutched him tight. "—I'm—I'm so sorry I fuckin' let them take you. I'm so sorry, Karen."

"I knew you were coming for me," she whispered into his chest.

He chuckled, and she felt it vibrate through her cheek. "Yeah, I heard you slinging pure brimstone and hellfire at the guy from behind the door. Should have cut off his ears as an act of mercy. Jesus."

Karen had to laugh, even though it hurt. "I was really pissed," she managed.

"I bet you fuckin' were." He pulled back and grinned at her like she was the best thing he'd seen all day, then leaned down and gave her a peck on the forehead. "Once that Vicodin kicks in, you go get cleaned up. Use the Epsom salts. I'll take care of the rest of the place."

Karen shut her eyes, feeling the lingering echo of his lips on her skin as he walked away through the bedroom door.


	7. Chapter 7

Karen opened her eyes, half-dreaming that she was rearranging files in her office. 

She froze, waiting for the pain to hit her. When it didn't, she slowly got her arms under her body and pushed herself up, looking for Frank.

Her bathroom door was slightly ajar, and steam was coming out of it. She heard water running. _Oh,_ she thought, and scooted off the bed, feeling a little floaty. _Oh, right. Vicodin._ She didn't care for the floaty sensation, but she was grateful for the pain relief. Strange that it hadn't worn off yet.

Stranger still was the fact she was clad in absolutely nothing but a pair of bikini briefs.

"Karen?" came a rough voice from inside the door. "That you?"

"Yeah," she said, and put her hand up against it. "Where's my clothes?"

The water shut off. "I, uh, turned you on your stomach because you were bleeding a little, and your shirt was stained. It's in the laundry. Thought you might be more comfortable."

"I want to come in," she said plaintively.

There was silence from behind the door. "Karen, you feeling okay?"

She put her hands on the door. "Please. Frank." An idea occurred to her, an offer. "I'll close my eyes."

Her offer hung in the air, and in a soft voice Frank said, "Okay. Come in."

Karen shut her eyes, pushed the door open, stepped into steamy heat, and shut it behind her.

She could hear him breathing. Both of them were silent.

He stepped closer, slowly, as if she was a feral cat he was afraid might run. Karen felt the heat coming off his skin and peeked through one eyelid for a fraction of a second to catch a blurry glimpse of his bare chest, almost golden in the light from the lamp.

He was inches from her. One of his hands brushed her hair away from her forehead, tucked it behind her ear. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly drier than the Sahara, and reached up blindly, finding the broad expanse of his wet chest.

"I think your judgment might be a little off, ma'am," he said, his voice gone smoky and black again.

"I'm fine," she whispered, letting her fingers slide over his pectorals and up to his collarbones.

"Karen," he said, and caught her left hand with his right. "Please—I—" He squeezed her hand, and she felt him pull it to his face, felt him turn his cheek and press a kiss into the center of her palm. "We can't do this."

Her heart sank. "Frank?"

"We—" His other hand cupped her head, and he pressed his forehead to hers with a gentle huff. "Dammit, Karen. You're killing me."

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, her left hand still frozen on his chest.

"It ain't your fault," he whispered, and kissed her forehead before stroking her cheek with his thumb. "No, it ain't your fault. You're doped up and lightheaded. You need to go eat something."

"No, I—" Karen struggled to find words. "I feel like this about you all the time."

Frank didn't say a word. He stood unmoving in front of her.

Karen took a deep breath and opened one eye. He was just standing there, mouth slightly open, the hard lines of his face gone soft and remote in shock.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked anxiously, opening the other eye.

"Jesus Christ," he said, half choked, and his hands slid to her shoulders, her hair, like he didn't know what to do with his hands. "Jesus Christ, Karen."

"Frank—"

"Can I—can I kiss you?" he asked, both his hands trembling. "Karen?"

"Yes," she gasped, and his mouth was on hers, softer than she'd thought his lips could possibly be. His hands were everywhere. Her face, her neck, her shoulders—he pushed her gently to the wall and kept kissing her.

 _I'm going to drown,_ she thought, and reached up to clutch at his head, dragging her fingers through his thick wet black hair as heat rushed down her body.

He broke the kiss, panting against her cheek. "God," he said, sounding pained.

"Shh, shh," she said. "Do you—what do you want to do?"

He pulled back and kissed her nose. "There's about a million things I wanna do," he whispered, and she became suddenly _very_ aware of the fact that the only thing separating her from him was a thin scrap of cotton.

"But." Frank pulled back. "I ain't doing anything until you're off the meds and those stitches are out."

Flustered, Karen crossed her arms over her chest.  "Oh," she said, very small.

"So," he said congenially, and turned toward the sink. "We gotta get you fed and hydrated, get that bandage changed. I have Aleve in my bag, and that's what you're gonna be on for the rest of the day."

~

An hour later, Karen sat on the sofa; washed, fed, and clean in a nest of pillows that Frank kept bringing her like a very large dog.

"I don't think you can fit that one anywhere," she said as he looked for a place to put the newest addition.

"You warm enough?" he asked. "I could make cocoa."

Karen smiled. "Cocoa would be nice. Thanks."

He disappeared into the kitchen. The TV was on, and Karen turned it up.

"… _the attack on the NYPD on 54 th Street, which appears to be the work of an unknown person emulating the deceased vigilante known as the Punisher. Footage from inside, taken on a personal cell phone, shows his signature white skull painted on the interior wall of the main office floor…"_

Karen frowned. Thy were telling the public it was a copycat? She reached for her notepad.

_"The FBI is classifying this as a targeted attack, as twelve police officers inside the building at the time are confirmed deceased. There seems to have been no motivation—"_

"Bullshit," said Karen, and glared at her TV.

"— _for the attack. The FBI will be investigating the incident in the weeks to follow."_

"Guess I should have spray-painted the whole damn story on the wall, but I didn't have the time," said Frank, appearing in the doorway with two mugs. "Here."

"They're not talking about the guy you left alive," Karen told him as she accepted her cocoa.

"'Course not. He's being rushed off to Falconetti." Frank took a sip of his own cocoa. "I got my own beef with him. We go way back. He helped fund one of the mobs that—" His voice cut off, and he looked down.

Karen set her mug down and leaned forward—ooh, that burned—to put a hand on his knee. "I'm sorry," she said helplessly.

Frank's mouth twisted into a moue of pain and he shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. "He sent his guys after me. They didn't come back. He wasn't too happy. We had a half-truce going, until I found out he was trafficking people for money."

"What happened yesterday?" Karen picked her mug back up.

Frank sat back and took a swig of cocoa. "Keep that notebook handy," he instructed, before launching into his story.

"So. I woke up, you were out cold. I figured I'd better get a head start on investigating the guys who killed Sasha Campbell. Left you water and meds and a note. I figured if you went to work with the guns you'd be safer than if you stayed here, and the meds would help. I left, I went out and back to the apartment. Probably got there around oh-eight-hundred, the place was swarming with cops. I hid in an alley pretending to be a homeless guy and overheard two of 'em talking about how they were gonna have to cover up her death, burn down the building or something. Saw they were from the NYPD office on 54th, so I retreated and called up an old acquaintance—David, I don't think you've met him—used to work for the NSA. He gave me a list of every cop in Hell's Kitchen. There's no way to know if they're all corrupt, but even so…"

Frank trailed off. Karen cleared her throat. "Then what?" she prompted.

"Oh, right. So we got the list, we'll know if someone's impersonating a cop, or just a dirty cop. Anyway, then I went back to your place to wait for you, but when I got there, there were about five unmarked cars outside your building, so I waited some more till they left, probably around ten. Went in and yanked all the bugs. They weren't police standard, either. I realized I fucked up when I told you to tell the police about Falconetti that first day. Realized it wasn't gonna be safe at your place either, so I thought I'd run to my place and make sure it wasn't being watched too—even though I rented it under the name Pete Castiglione. So I went there. Nobody was around. I tidied up the place thinking I'd bring you by, and went back to your block. The cops were back, waiting for you. So I posted myself up and waited till I saw you coming down the street looking like a ghost was chasing you, and—"

His voice cut off again. He gulped down more cocoa.

"And…?" Karen asked.

"And then the goddamn plainsclothes asshole arrested you, and I couldn't do a goddamn thing but watch," he said, and set his mug down. "I—I couldn't really think straight. So I sat in a coffee shop, waited for the cops to leave, went back up to your apartment, got dressed, and stole a car."

"In broad daylight?"

"Yeah. Like I said. Wasn't thinking straight. Drove to the station, walked right in, and ta-da."

"I was there for four hours," said Karen. "That took you four hours?"

"First of all, it was rush hour in New York City, and second of all I wasn't gonna _not_ have a car to take you home," he informed her. "You're welcome."

"Oh." Karen sunk deeper into her pillow fort and finished her cocoa. "I didn't know you had a place. Where are you staying?"

"In a shithole," he said, and grinned. "Technically I'm dead. Well, technically Frank Castle is dead, and I'm Pete Castiglione."

"Wait, what?"

"I did a favor for someone. It's all legal. Gotta say, it was nice to hear someone calling me Frank again." He stretched.

"You were in hiding?" Karen cocked her head.

"Yep. Did fine for a month. Then I was tipped off about the bomb at your office." He chuckled. "Stupid, but I thought maybe….nah, I dunno. I was worried about you."

"I was worried about you too," she said softly. "You never called, never came by, never caught me on the corner. I thought maybe—I thought you were dead, sometimes."

Frank gave her a wide eyed look and slid off the chair he was sitting on, kneeling by the sofa. "I ain't dead," he said. "Not for a long time, okay?"

"Okay," she said, and sniffed as the tears started to flow, her eyes hot. "Shit. I'm sorry."

"Shh, shh, shh," he said and patted her knee. "Hey. Karen. I'm sorry."

"It's just—after Matt, I thought—maybe I could help one person, just one person who, who really needed me and—" She wasn't making sense, she thought desperately, and winced as she shifted her weight.

"… _the Bulletin offices have been closed indefinitely until further notice, due to threats of a possible second attack…"_

"Hey, you get a vacation," said Frank, not unkindly. "Look at that. Merry Christmas."

"Oh, god," she said, and sat up. "Christmas is in two weeks."

"Yeah, I guess it is." Frank turned down the TV volume and sat back on his heels. "Got plans?"

"No," she said. "I don't even have a tree. Even a fake one."

He was quiet for a bit. "Maybe that's for the better," he said. "I don't do, you know. Holiday stuff. Not yet." His fingers drummed on the couch.

"Frank," she said softly, and he turned.

"Yeah?"

"I can feel my back again, and I'm not enjoying it," she said, slightly strained.

"Okay, lay back. I'll get you some Aleve. It won't be great, but it'll take the edge off." He stood up and went to his bag, and she lay back and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to breathe slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...HERE WE ARE. Life update! I might have found a job! Woo! Anyway I've got no idea when the next chapter will be up, so please enjoy this appetizer taste of smut, reread it as often as you want/need to, make fanart, and yell at me about your feels here or on my tumblr, which is @urulokid !. WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT DOES ANYONE KNOW I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT AM I DOING


	8. Chapter 8

It was a full two days before the pain subsided.

Karen hated every minute of it, and made several loud and angry comments on the unfairness of the fact that Frank was walking around just fine after being shot twice a week ago. Even his bruises had healed faster than hers.

"You've got to be some kind of goddamn superhuman," she hissed through her teeth at three in the morning on Wednesday. "What the _hell._ "

"I am _not,_ " he scoffed, and got her more Aleve. "Unless a Marine counts."

The only reply he got was a muffled shriek of agony.

By the time Thursday rolled around, she felt much better. The soreness had gone from her body, and although the bruises were still there, yellow and green, the wound in her back had knit together into a clean, pink scar that she could see if Frank held up a mirror.

"I think we can get these stitches out now" he said, prodding her exposed skin above the pulled-down neck of her loose T shirt. "You healed pretty well."

"It was all that soup you made. I'm going to be eating it for a month." Karen peered over her shoulder. "What about your stitches?"

"Might need your help with those," he said, and gently tugged and prodded at her skin. She could feel the tickle of the thread slipping out, and then he patted her shoulder. "All done."

"Your turn," she said. She pulled her shirt back up over her shoulder and pointed at the bed. "Sit."

He sat, knees apart and his hands on them. "Just pull on the longer ends," he instructed her.

Karen stepped close to his knee and peered down at the shaved spot on his head. It had healed well, and was a dark pink scar that nearly matched the one from their skirmish back in November. She bit her lip and gently pulled out one stitch, watching as it snaked right out of his head. Her left hand rested in the thick mat of black hair on top of his head, and she pulled out the second one.

"Two more to go," she said. "How you holding up?"

"Fine and dandy," he said, a little thinly.

"I'll hurry," she said, and removed the last two as quickly as she could without tearing anything. "You're not bleeding."

"I shoulda just shaved my head," he said, reaching up tentatively and feeling the bald spot. "Look like an idiot."

"It'll grow back," she said, smiling. "You can wear hats. It's freezing."

He snorted and stole a glance up at her. "You don't think it, uh, looks stupid?"

Karen rolled her eyes. "No. Your ego may remain unbruised."

Frank snorted again, bent his head, and ever so slightly raised his right hand so that the back of his index finger was touching her knee. "Thanks a lot," he said.

Karen let her hand rest on his shoulder, her heart suddenly pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it. She couldn't bring herself to say _so about that conversation in the bathroom,_ but she also didn't want to stop this frozen moment of intimacy. His finger was drifting, slow and even, just above her knee, and that _shouldn't_ be making her want to drop to her knees and beg him to—

"Page?" he said softly, and she realized she was staring.

"I—I'm fine," she said, and squeezed his shoulder. His hand dropped back to his knee.

"Sorry," he said. "We, uh. We should get back to taking notes."

"You already wrote down everything you know while I was trying to stay unconscious for two days," she reminded him. "I saw the notepad."

"Oh." Frank considered this, then looked back up. "Well. Nobody's watching the apartment. But we probably shouldn't leave."

"Oh," said Karen. "We—um, so. Um." Her face went hot, and she knew she was blushing. Her throat was choked up, and as Frank's brow furrowed quizzically, she knew she'd rather die than remain under that stare one more second. "We—we sort of had something on the back burner. The bathroom."

Frank's eyes widened, and he looked down. Karen's face burned. "Oh, god, I'm so sorry, please forget I said any—"

His head snapped back up. "What? No. I ain't gonna forget that till the day I die. Jesus. I just—I thought maybe you didn't remember. You were pretty loopy."

"Oh, no. I remembered," she assured him quickly.

"Well, then," he said, and let his words trail off. "I guess—in between me doing perimeter checks, of course—I—uh, well—"

Karen bent over and kissed his forehead, as gently as she possibly could. He smelled like—something unidentifiably masculine, and leather, and gun oil. "Yes," she whispered against his warm skin.

Frank let out a soft, strained sound. Karen lifted her head and he tilted his back, his hands up, as if he didn't know where to put them. "Karen," he said, deep and husky.

"It's okay," she said softly. "What—um, is there anything you don't want me to do?"

He shook his head mutely and caught her right hand, pressing it to his mouth. His eyes still closed, he held her palm to his cheek. "I don't—" he began hoarsely, then tried again. "I haven't done this in a long time.  I—I don't know if I can."

"We don't have to do everything at once," she said, and brought her other hand up to brush the short, soft hair at his temple.

"Are you—are you okay with it if I take the lead?" he asked, eyes flickering back up at her.

"Yeah, yeah," she whispered. "Of course." Her fingers caressed the back of his head, and she suddenly felt like she might cry.

Frank reached both arms up for her, cupping the back of her neck in one hand and holding her in place with the other, and gave her a long, searching look. He must have liked what he found, because the next thing she knew he was kissing her again. This wasn't the gentle kiss from the bathroom. This was hungry. His teeth found her tender lip, and she groaned into his mouth as he pulled her down to straddle his lap on the edge of the bed.

Frank broke the kiss to lean back and pull his shirt off. "I've got you," he whispered, his thick arms circling her again. He kissed the hollow at the base of her neck, traced her collarbone with his tongue. Karen gasped and involuntarily ground down on him.

"Shit," she whispered, and clung to his wide shoulders. He pulled back a little and she felt two of his fingers come up and lightly brush against her left nipple, over the fabric until it stiffened. He brought his hand up, hooked his fingers into the neck of her T shirt and gently dragged it to the side, following the line of her clavicle to the end.

"You got skin like china," he mumbled, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Makes me afraid to touch you."

"Don't be," she said, and impulsively lifted her arms, yanking her shirt off.

His reaction mystified her. He blinked, then held her at arm's length and stared at her naked upper body, drinking her in with his eyes.

"It's not like you haven't seen them before." Karen fought the urge to cover herself.

"Sure, but not like this," he said, and traced the under-curve of her right breast with his fingers. She shivered, and her flesh rose in bumps. Frank hummed in appreciation, then caught her right forearm. "Hmm," he said, and she saw the green bruises there, still fading. "This hurt?"

"No," she said truthfully, and he kissed her bruise before reaching up and pulling her hair tie out of her ponytail, letting her soft hair float down around her shoulders.

"Holy Christ," he said, and kissed her again, long and deep.

When she came up for air, he pulled her down on top of him, lying on his back on the bed. Karen couldn't help it. She grabbed his wrists and held them to the duvet, then bent her head to kiss his chest. "You heal fast," she said between small nips and kisses that made him jerk. "You don't have that vest on, so I'm willing to bet that you can feel this all right." Her teeth closed gently on his left nipple, and he let out a dreadfully high pitched gasp and bucked up into her face.

"Jesus Christ," he said, and Karen giggled and let go of his wrists, propping herself up over his body.

"Your pants, um, look a little uncomfortable," she informed him.

"Do they now," he said, and she was pleased to see he was slightly flushed. "Well. I guess I should take 'em off."

Karen rolled over and shucked off her own flannel pajama pants, but left her underwear on. _Just in case,_ she thought, and looked over to see Frank in nothing but his gray boxer-briefs, which were very tight and—well. He was… in a state. An expected state, of course, but—

"I see nothing is wrong with your circulatory system," she said.

Frank snorted. "Miss Page," he said, rolling over on his side to face her. "You makin' improper suggestions about my manhood?"

She fought a giggle. "I don't know what you mean, Castle. It—it looks to be in good working order—"

He laughed outright and pulled her in, rolling on top of her as she mock struggled. "I dunno, Miss Page, I ain't used it in a while. We'll have to find out."

Karen opened her mouth, and then Frank was looking at the bedside clock. "Aw, shit," he said. "It's 11. Gotta do a perimeter check. You stay right here and don't move a muscle, you hear me?" He rolled off her, pressed a quick kiss to her cheek, and yanked his pants back on.

"Five more minutes," she begged.

"I'll be right back and you can have all the minutes you want," he promised, grabbing a sweater and shoving his boots on. "Ten minutes, sweetheart. Be right back."

He disappeared out the door with a click, and Karen flopped onto her back and sighed.

 _Holy hell, Karen,_ she thought to herself. _What are you doing?_ She closed her eyes. "This isn't a rebound," she said out loud to herself. "You can't keep being afraid to move on, Karen."

Nobody ever told you when you were done grieving. In the weeks after Matt's death, she'd desperately wanted someone to knock on her door, someone with a card and a neat jacket and maybe an umbrella and say _are you Karen Page? I've been sent to inform you that you can now stop grieving and move on with your life, starting in five minutes. Your task is complete. Thank you_ and disappear into the street.

Perhaps nobody could tell you at all when you were finished grieving. But-with a sudden sort of shock, she realized she had barely thought about Matt Murdock in the past week, and then felt guilty. _I should go light a candle,_ she thought, and then, Matt's voice in her mind saying _guilt, just like a good Catholic._ She smiled in spite of herself.

A light sound at the door brought her out of her reverie. "Frank?" she called out. No answer, no heavy steps on the floor. Karen frowned and grabbed her shirt, yanked it on and headed for the door. She was sure she'd heard a sound, but…the living area and the kitchen were both empty. Frowning, she glanced toward the door, and then she saw the ivory envelope that had been slid under the door.

Karen eyed it nervously. She looked around and grabbed a long metal soup ladle from the kitchen, then crouched on the floor and tapped it. Nothing happened. A million possibilities were running through her head. Could it be anthrax? A letter bomb? A—

The door opened, and she flailed backward, startled and swinging the soup ladle. "Shit!"

Frank stared at her. "The hell are you doin'?"

"Someone slid that under the door, and I don't—Frank?"

He was staring at it with a blank, hard face. She knew that look. That was the look he had right before putting a bullet through someone's head. Slowly, he picked up the envelope and opened it, pulling out a small ivory card.

"It's for you," he said brusquely, and handed it to her.

Mystified, Karen took the card—good quality, thick cardstock, expensive—and read aloud.

"'Miss Karen Page, the pleasure of your company is requested tonight, 8 pm, for dinner at Dock 12—celebrating the event of your fortuitous recovery. Black tie. Come alone." She looked up. "What the hell?"

"They're watching us," Frank said through stiff lips. "I was—I was gone for a _minute_ , how the fuck did they get a note up here?"

"Nobody could have come into the building," said Karen, her mind racing. "You weren't gone long enough for—unless they had someone already _in_ the building, someone who knows where I live and who could be seen in the hallways without any suspicion—"

Their eyes met. "Mrs. DiAngelo," they said simultaneously, and Frank stood immediately.

"I'll be right back," he said, quite steely-eyed, and headed for the door.

~

Twenty minutes later they had learned the entire story from the very indignant and flustered Mrs. DiAngelo. A man had met her outside, in the back alley as she was taking out the trash, ("looked like one of those Wall Street brokers, you know, with the fancy shoes and the suit and the greasy hair") had handed her a white envelope, and had politely asked her to do him the favor of slipping it under Karen Page's door at precisely four past eleven. He had asked her to repeat the time twice, to make sure it was the correct time, and then handed her a crisp $100 bill for her trouble.

"Of course she did it," said Karen. "She's a middle aged woman who trusts anyone in a suit."

Frank was pacing back and forth across her living room. "They've been fucking watching us," he said murderously, and whipped about to slam his fist into a pillow. "Fucking—they knew it takes me exactly four minutes to get out the front door and down to the first checkpoint. _Exactly_ the right time for someone to come up there and get to you. This is them telling me they can see me, and that I'm predictable, and that—that they can _hurt_ you, Karen."

"What do I do?" she asked.

"You do what they want," Frank said, sounding far more tired than he looked. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "They know where we are. We can't get away without being seen. We play by their rules for now."

Karen's mouth dropped. "You—you're seriously going to cave to the demands of a bunch of terrorists? That's not like you—"

He crossed the room in one step and took her by the shoulders in a gesture that startled her with its ferocity. "I don't give a damn," he growled. "You got that? I'm not playing this game with your life. I can't—I—" His hands trembled and his voice failed. "Dammit, Karen," he said, and let go of her. "I'm not getting into a goddamn dick measuring contest with these—with your life in the balance."

"So what, so I just go expose myself to these people, Frank?" Karen snapped. "I walk in there alone without you and whatever happens, happens?"

"I didn't say that," Frank said. "Listen to me, okay? I know this place isn't bugged. Look, there's no place for them to be staking us out on the other side of the street. They've got to be watching through some kind of long lens, okay? Blocks away. Meaning they can see us, but not hear us."

"So what, what do we do?" Karen asked.

Frank met her eyes. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation.

"Good." He bent down and shrugged on his big coat, picked up his duffel bag, and slung it over one shoulder. "I'm going to leave. I won't be coming back. You get ready for tonight. I want you to call a taxi, have it take you to the location on the card. And dress to the nines, okay?"

"I know what 'black tie' means," she said, a little shaken. "Where are you going?"

"Out," said Frank. He stepped forward, cupped the back of her head in his wide hand, and kissed her forehead. "Whatever you do, don't be late."

Then he was out the door, and she was as alone in her apartment as if he'd never been there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rip in peace my whole life I've been slammed for a week and still haven't heard back from any prospective jobs 
> 
> HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT!!! NEXT UP KAREN GOES TO DINNER HOW EXCITING IM SURE THIS WON'T END BADLY AT ALL


	9. Chapter 9

Karen threw open her closet doors, reaching into the very back and pulling out the one black tie appropriate piece she owned, a blue evening gown she'd bought on clearance two years ago for some reception. It was not a particularly functional piece of clothing, with a low neckline and an even lower back. _I can't even wear a bra with this,_ she thought in vague panic, then shucked off her shirt and yanked the dress on, glaring at herself in the bathroom mirror.

Okay, so it looked _decent_. It was a long, midnight blue silk slip dress, a little dated but cut on the bias and it clung to every curve she owned. It certainly made her eyes pop.

She took it off, hopped in the shower, used her good razor to shave everything, and came out wincing a little at the stinging pink scar on her back. _Dress to the nines,_ said Frank's voice inside her head, and she toweled dry, then pulled out her makeup bag and went to work.

~

It was nearly 7 PM by the time she had done and redone her face and hair enough to be satisfied. She decided against any jewelry, and stared at herself one last time in the mirror critically as she paused on her way to grab her shoes and coat.

Matte berry lips. Blue eyes made more vibrant by the eyeliner and mascara she'd used to smoke out her pale lashes. Okay, so it wasn't horrible. She looked nice. She reached up and touched a wave of blond hair she'd forced into place with what felt like a pound of hairspray and her hot rollers, then decided this was as good as she was going to look.

"Shoes, Page," she muttered to herself, and pulled a barely-worn pair of black strappy heels out of her closet. _I'll put them on in the cab,_ she thought, and hooked them over her arm as she grabbed for her coat automatically, then remembered her black one still had a bullet hole in the back just as she yanked it out of the closet.

She was just about to put it back when she realized she didn't see the hole, and after turning it over and over, she saw that it had been patched and sewn over in a neat, tight stitch that had to have been Frank's.

Karen let her fingers brush over it, and forced herself not to cry and ruin her makeup. "Thank you," she whispered, and threw the coat on.

It was already dark in the streets. Karen closed her eyes, and willed her stomach to stop turning flips. "You can do this," she whispered to herself. Then, she picked up the envelope and shoved it into her clutch, leaving the safety of her apartment and locking the door behind her.

~

The cab ride to Dock 12 felt shorter than it should have. Karen pulled her heels on in the backseat and shoved her flats into her clutch alongside her .380.

She'd deliberated on whether or not to bring her gun. Figuring she was better off safe than sorry, she'd loaded it and tucked it into the clutch just in case. She peered in and took inventory.

Loaded firearm, flats, her ID and debit card, plus a $10 to tip the cabbie with, a tiny pad of paper, a pen, her phone, and lipstick. Perfect, she was prepared for meeting a mob boss—or whoever was waiting for her at the end of the drive.

The cab pulled up and stopped in front of a well kept building, and as Karen reached for the handle to let herself out, someone outside opened it for her. She jumped, and peered up into the eyes of a man in black from head to toe. "Miss Page," he said. "Please follow me."

Karen slipped out, forgetting to tip the cabbie, and followed him into what looked like a five star restaurant. She took in the room with a glance as another man in black took her coat, exposing her back to the night's chill lingering in the foyer.

Glass. Candles. Fine carpet. Silver. The whole place was glowing, spotless—and completely deserted. "This way," said the first man pleasantly, and she followed him, swaying slightly in her heels, to a table in the very back of the restaurant.

A man stood up and pulled out a chair for her. She forgot to look at him as she took her seat, and it was only when he sat back down across from her that she focused on his face.

Handsome. Tanned, slightly weathered, like someone who spent their time on a boat a lot. Dark hair combed back, white dinner jacket, black satin tie, and a white smile. Early forties, perhaps.

"Miss Page," he said, smiling. "You look very well. Very lovely. So happy you got my invitation." He sounded like someone who'd been educated at a school where lacrosse was popular. Like a Kennedy. Clipped and formal and nothing like an Italian mob gangster. _Who the hell is this guy?_

"Thank you," she said automatically, then sneaked a peek to the rest of the room. "It's—it's a lovely restaurant."

"Ah, yes," he said, and crooked a finger. A perfectly dressed waiter appeared out of nowhere, poured two glasses of wine, and stepped back. Her host took a sip. "Built in the 1920s, you know."

"I guessed that from the Art Deco architecture outside, the front door," she said.

"Ah!" He grinned again. "A history enthusiast. You don't miss a thing, Miss Page. I believe it is what makes you such a good journalist. I wanted to meet you, privately, you see." He waved one hand. "So. I reserved the entire restaurant. Now, we can speak one on one. No murmur or chatter. We must be perfectly clear with each other." He took another sip.

"If I'm going to be clear with you, I have to know your name," said Karen lifting her own wineglass and sniffing the wine. It was probably hideously expensive, but it just smelled like any wine to her. She took a sip and was pleasantly surprised. It was good.

He fixed her with a dark eye and leaned forward. "I am Benny Falconetti," he said. "Surely you must have realized that. Come now, Miss Page."

Karen blinked. _This_ was Benny Falconetti? "I—" she began, and blushed in spite of herself. "I'm sorry. I thought you'd be much older."

He laughed. "Sorry to disappoint," he said, and winked before taking another sip. "My father is Benny, I am Benny. Ben to friends. He is getting….shall we say, a little up there in years, and can’t run things as he used to. So here I am. The name still holds some clout."

"I have to say, you are not what I was expecting," Karen said, and took another drink as warmth finally started seeping into her.

"Which brings us to the question of what you were expecting, and what you came prepared for," he said, and waved his bodyguard over. "Please do my the favor of checking Miss Page's clutch," he said silkily.

Karen looked away as the bodyguard came up with her .380 and set it on the table. "Thank you," said Falconetti, and drummed his fingers. "I think we're ready to order," he said, and the waiter stepped forward. "She's going to have the pasta e fagioli. I'll have my usual. Do you like garlic bread, Miss Page?"

Bristling slightly at not being allowed to order for herself, Karen temporarily snapped out of it. "Oh, yes," she said.

"Excellent. Basket. That's all."

The waiter scurried off and Falconetti cast his eye back to Karen. "You should be congratulated on your speedy recovery," he said, and sipped more wine. "An injury sustained while in a skirmish with my men and a…mysterious friend of yours."

Karen kept her face blank as possible and sipped her own wine. "Mmm," she said.

"What were you doing at that apartment?" he asked.

"I'm a journalist," she said, setting her glass down. "I followed a lead."

"There's no point in being coy," he said sharply.

"I agree," she said, and the waiter came back with their food. Falconetti's usual turned out to be a well seared strip steak, which he became thoroughly engrossed in as she sipped spoonfuls of her fragrant fagioli. It was delicious. So was the garlic bread.

Neither of them spoke until both plates were clean, and whisked away by the ever-watchful waiter.

"So," said Falconetti, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin that looked like it might cost a month of Karen's rent. "Your friend. Pete Castiglioni."

"Yes," said Karen, taking a very large gulp of wine.

"A farce. A false identity invented by Homeland Security and the DOJ. But you knew that." He tossed the napkin on the table. "Yes, you know that your friend Pete is truly Frank Castle, ex-Marine, notoriously violent vigilante. He's popped up a few times. We have an understanding—perhaps he's mentioned me. In any case, he's been interfering with my business for long enough."

Karen set her glass down and wisely said nothing.

Falconetti leaned forward. "He didn't follow you here, you know."

Her heart dropped into her stomach. She still said nothing.

"We’ve been watching you all day, put eyes on the ground. Watched him leave. He walked right out of Hell's Kitchen into Midtown and never came back. Nothing. Not a hair. He's not showing up tonight, Miss Page." Falconetti drained his glass and set it down. "I'm not sure what you saw in him. Or why you trusted him." He grinned. "You really shouldn't have."

Karen clenched her right hand into a fist below the table. "He's a good man," she said, her voice shaking. Frank couldn't have left her. Wouldn't have. Could he?

"There's no such thing as a good man," said Falconetti. "There are only men with ambition, and men with none; men who are…expendable. The question is: which one is our friend Frank? And which are you? I'll tell you right now, those geniuses in the FBI who come down here to investigate are the first kind. Pleasure doing business with them. Always willing to turn the other cheek and pretend my checks are holiday bonuses."

Karen wondered for a fleeting second how fast she could grab her gun and fire a round into his face. He grinned like he knew what she was thinking. "I'm not any type of man," she said, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be. "I'm a woman."

"Well, there's only one type of those," said Falconetti with a curl to his lip.

"Maybe only one type you get exposed to," she shot back.

He regarded her with a cold eye and pulled out a briefcase from under his seat. "What I enjoy about this restaurant," he said, as if she hadn’t spoken, "is the way it backs right up to the water. I sailed down from the docks in Upper Manhattan and docked right out here. Would you care to see my boat?"

"Sure," said Karen stiffly, and waited for him to pull her chair out before standing and following him to the back door. She paused, hands on her arms.

"It'll only be a moment," he said, and walked outside into the freezing wind.

Karen balefully glared at the bodyguard behind her, and followed him out, her clutch still in her hands.

A sleek, white 70 foot yacht floated on the water. Falconetti stood there looking at it, briefcase in his hands. "Karen Page," he said calmly, and turned to face her. "You really are so alone."

"I'm not alone," she said, shivering.

"Vermont. So far. And your poor parents…well, after that nasty business with your brother…I don't blame them."

Ice that had nothing to do with the cold wind pierced Karen's stomach.

"You work a dead end journalism job that, quite frankly, puts you in positions you shouldn't be in. Putting your nose in where it shouldn't be." He tapped his briefcase thoughtfully. "I've really done you a favor. Your new life will be so much more…rewarding."

"What do you _mean_ , my new life?" she growled.

He smiled. A shark's smile, she thought. "I've accepted quite the sum for you. Middling height, slender, cool blonde with blue eyes. You go for quite a bit. In fact, you were auctioned."

Horror snaked down her spine. " _What_?"

"Yes, Miss Page. Highest bidder was a Saudi prince—well, they're a dime a dozen, but you won't be badly off." He shook his briefcase. "The check's in here. You've delivered yourself, and I must say, in _quite_ the package—"

Karen barely thought to react. She whipped off her right heel and aimed it straight at his face in a downward arc that tore the skin on his cheek and drew blood.

Both of his bodyguards grabbed her by the arms. Falconetti was swearing and holding his face. "Goddamn bitch," he snapped, and kicked her heel into the river, where it disappeared with a plop. "How do you like that, huh? Don't worry, your new husband will buy you fifty more. Jesus." He patted at his face and peered at his hand in the light from the dock.

"I hope you're bleeding," she yelled at him from where she was stuck between two guards, "all over your stupid fucking jacket!"

"This is Gucci, so you'd better hope I'm not!" he shouted, and turned to the bodyguards. "Get her on board. Sedate her. We're out of here in five. I have to make the goddamn drop off looking like a fucking—"

Karen drew the biggest breath she could, and screamed, "FRAAANK!" before being punched in the gut by Bodyguard Two, who was a mean looking son of a bitch. Gasping, she kicked feebly as they dragged her up the gangplank and onto the yacht.

She was deposited onto a low couch in a room that was bigger and nicer than her apartment, and finally got her air back as the first bodyguard was tapping a nasty looking syringe.

"Please, no," she said. "I'll be quiet."

"No, you won't," he said, and Bodyguard Two held her down as the first  one jammed the needle into her neck with the proficiency of someone who'd done this before.

Karen clapped her hand to her neck and grimaced. "Ouch," she said dizzily. "Hey."

"You're going to be loopy," one of them said.

Things were going around her body. Her arms. Hands. She fell back against the couch and bit down on a soft piece of cloth in her mouth. It was nice. She couldn't remember why she was trying to get away. This was okay. She could sleep.

There was a third man in black coming down the big stairs. She watched, feeling very sleepy, as he punched the other two men. Maybe that was the plan. She couldn't remember the plan, or even if there was one. Plan was a funny word. Plan. Plan. It didn't sound like a word anymore. Maybe there wasn't a plan. Both of the two men were on the ground not moving.

The third man was coming over to her, and she whimpered between her gag and drew her knees up. Was he going to fight her too?

"Karen," he said, in a dark voice. "Hey, Karen. Come on now. Sit up." He was untying her gag, and sitting up hurt but he was helping her. "Karen?"

"I know you," she said, and he was pulling at her hands, but she felt like she was made of molasses, slow and sticky and hot. "You're Frank. You left me."

 He was asking her things, but they were all running together. She couldn't understand.

"Frank," she whispered, and grasped at his coat.

She was being picked up, swung up and dangling over his shoulder. It was fun. They were outside then, and that wasn't fun, it was cold. She revived a little.

"Hey, what the _fuck_?" said Falconetti, staring up from the end of the gangplank, and that was all he got out before Frank raised his unoccupied right hand and fired off one shot that hit him in the knee, tearing a nice neat hole through his Gucci slacks.

Karen jerked alert as Falconetti screamed and fell over. "Jesus," she gasped, and Frank put her down.

"Run," he said. "Karen, go. Get out of here."

"Not without you," she insisted, and he made an angry noise in his throat and stomped on Falconetti's shattered kneecap.

 _The gun,_ she remembered, and stumbled toward the back door of the restaurant, swinging it open and coming face to face with about twenty horrified waiters, all staring at her and at the scene unfolding on the back patio.

"Call Homeland Security and the FBI," she slurred through her sedative fog, and three of them ran off. Her gun was sitting on the table still, along with the half empty bottle of wine. She grabbed both and hobbled back out the door, one heel still on.

Falconetti and Frank were fighting. Karen froze on the dock, gun in her right hand and wine bottle in her left. Frank was screaming. Deep, rough, hoarse, furious screams, punctuating every punch and kick and jab he gave Falconetti. " _What—did—I—tell—you—about—Karen—Page!?"_

He stepped forward and gripped Falconetti's right wrist, maneuvering him right up to the edge of the dock. Both of them teetered there for a second, grappling, unable to move, locked there.

Karen saw Falconetti kick at Frank, duck, grab at his ankle, saw a flash of metal. "Frank, look out!" she screamed, and Falconetti jammed a pistol into Frank's ribs. "You've come between me and my sales for the last goddamn time," he seethed, and pulled the trigger.

Frank Castle staggered on the edge of the dock, still clutching Falconetti, and then Falconetti pushed him and Frank was over and falling and with a splash he disappeared into the murky waters of the freezing Hudson.

Karen was too cold and woozy to scream or cry. Falconetti turned around and advanced on her, one leg dragging. "You got my men killed again," he snarled, his hair hanging in his eyes and his face a bloody mess. "I should have sold you for half what I did."

She set down the wine bottle, brought her pistol up and cocked it with a click that gave him pause. "Take another step and I shoot," she said. Her hands were weaving back and forth, and she willed herself to focus.

Falconetti smirked, his eyes sliding over her. "You can't shoot me," he said with a hideous grin, and stepped toward her.

She pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a deafening report. Falconetti jerked and looked down at the bloodstain that was blooming on his white dinner jacket.

"Try and sell _that_ to a Saudi prince, you son of a bitch," she said.

Slowly, he crumpled to the ground, and she dropped her gun and stumbled to the pier, looking over into the dark water. "Frank!" she screamed, eyes frantically scanning for anything that would show life. "Frank!"

"Here," came a soft voice, and she looked down to see him clinging to the pier by his fingers, water lapping around his shoulders. "Get me outta here, Page."

She knelt and grabbed him by the straps on his vest, dragging him up out of the water and onto the dock with all the strength she could muster. "Oh, god," she managed, shaking. "Frank, I thought you were dead."

"Kevlar," he said, wincing. "Did you shoot him?"

"Yeah." She looked over to where Falconetti lay, now unmoving. "I think he's dead."

Frank struggled to his feet. "I'm going to freeze my balls off," he mumbled.

"We're both gonna get hypothermia," she said, and pulled him inside, where police and federal agents were already flooding the restaurant. "Someone have a blanket?"

~

Half an hour later, they were both wrapped in thermal blankets and finishing their statements to federal agents while every piece of paper in Falconetti's briefcase was being pored over by forensics.

"You say Falconetti told you personally that the FBI had corrupt agents and that he'd paid them off?" asked a skeptical looking, young DHS agent. "Can you prove that?"

Karen nodded. The sedative was wearing off, and she felt like she'd been repeating herself for the past hour. "Here," she said, and took out her cell phone, pressing the unlock button and opening her recorder app. "It stopped recording probably ten minutes ago. I pressed start the second the cab pulled up."

Frank chuckled from out of his crinkly metal blanket nest. "I'll be damned," he said in a voice of admiration that warmed her to her toes. "Karen Page, intrepid reporter."

"We’re going to need to take that recording," said the agent, her hand out.

Karen pressed play and turned up the volume, dragging her finger over the bar until she reached "… _I'll tell you right now, those geniuses in the FBI who come down here to investigate are the first kind. Pleasure doing business with them. Always willing to turn the other cheek and pretend my checks are holiday bonuses…"_

Every FBI agent in the room stopped and stared at each other. The DHS agent smiled and dropped her hand. "I'll give you my card. Please email that to me _immediately_."

"If I don't see it in the news within a month," said Karen, "I reserve the right to leak it online on the Bulletin site and run the story."

"Deal," she said, and handed Karen a card.

"Isn't that—isn't it illegal to record someone without their knowledge?" said an older, nervous looking FBI agent.

"The state of New York is a one party consent state," said Karen tiredly. "I consented. I am one party. It's legal. Can we go home?"

"I think we're done here. Call you a cab?" The DHS agent pulled out her phone.

"Please," said Frank. "I'm about ready to sleep for a damn week."

"You're not doing a great job of laying low, Mr. Castiglione," she reprimanded.

"Sorry. I'll try harder next time," he said, and stood up, holding out his hand. "C'mon, Page. Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN DA DA DAAA DAAA DADADADADAAAA 
> 
> who's ready for some POST FIGHT SEX I know I am STAY TUNED


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the MOMENT YOU'VE ALLLLL BEEN WAITING FORRRR 
> 
> I'll be taking an internet hiatus for five or so days so please leave a comment telling me how much you hate me/love me so i can see them when I come back after I see Star Wars 8, I subsist on your TEARS 
> 
> you're all wonderful and i love you xo

Karen and Frank finally got back to Karen's apartment at somewhere around eleven PM. She unlocked the door and opened it for Frank, who shucked off his soaked leather coat the instant he was inside and stood there shivering in his wet clothes.

"I'll start a shower," Karen said as she locked the door behind her, and looked down, realizing she had somehow managed to hold onto the wine bottle from dinner. "Huh."

"Throw that in the fridge," Frank said. "Celebrate later."

"Yeah," she said, and crossed over to the fridge, opening the door and shoving the bottle between a box of takeout and a carton of orange juice. "My brain isn't working," she mumbled.

"That's the sedative wearing off," he said, and peeled off his vest, grimacing. "Ouch."

"Are you okay?" She kicked off her flats and ran her hands over his chest, searching.

"I'm fine," he said. "Can you, uh. Pull my shirt off? Hurts to stretch."

She grasped the bottom of his sodden black knit shirt and pulled it off carefully, revealing an angry-looking, fresh bruise on his upper abdomen. "Jesus," she said.

"That's what happens when you get shot at close range with a bulletproof vest on," he said, and cupped his stomach protectively. "Don't poke it."

"I'm not," she said with a laugh. "Shower. Come on."

She could hear him dropping the rest of his clothes as he followed her to the bathroom, and as she turned the water on and waited for the pipes to heat up, she caught a glance of herself in the mirror.

Mascara streaked down her cheeks, her lipstick smudged, her hair a wreck and her eyes red with fatigue. "Jesus," she said, and grabbed for her makeup wipes, scrubbing her face clean as Frank tested the water and slid into the shower with a groan.

"I'm joining you," she told him, tossing the stained wipe in the trash and pulling the thin straps of her gown off her shoulders. It pooled at her feet in a mass of blue silk, and she stepped out of it and looked up to see him motionless, looking at her behind the glass.

"Well, come in," he said, and she pulled off her underwear before sliding the glass door aside and joining him in the shower.

It was hot, full of steam from the water, and full of Frank, whose massive shoulders seemed to take up the entire space. She didn't even think, just moved in and clutched him in a tight embrace around his chest, hot water streaming down their bodies and into her eyes. His hands traced up her back and held her tight against him, and she felt his chin come down to rest against her shoulder.

"I've got you," he said softly, and she closed her eyes and tried very hard not to cry.

"I thought you were gone," she choked out.

"I was. Shh. It's okay. I went to Manhattan and stowed away on his yacht. That dumbass never thought of checking to see if I was following him instead of you. I was there the whole time. It's okay." He stroked her back and rocked gently, and she held him as tight as she could and just breathed. "Don't listen to a goddamn word anyone tells you about me, okay?"

"Okay," said Karen, listening to his heartbeat. "Don't ever do that again."

Frank chuckled and she heard it through his chest. "Never," he said, and kissed the top of her wet head. "Ease up on the pressure, huh?"

"Oh, sorry," she said, and dropped her arms, pulling them into the space between their bodies instead. "Better?"

"Yeah," he said, and tucked a wet chunk of hair behind her ear. "You know you scream louder than anyone I've ever heard in my damn life? You yelled out for me as they were dragging you on board and it took everything I had to not rush down and grab you before I took out the guards." He shut his eyes, as if remembering, then brought his head down to touch her forehead. "Scared me to death," he whispered.

"I have good lungs," she breathed, inches from his mouth.

He smiled and moved as if he was going to kiss her, then hesitated. "I—is this—"

"It's okay," she said hurriedly, "it's always okay—" and she kissed him full on the mouth, her hands finding his cheek and shoulders and neck as his mouth moved under hers and his hand gripped her waist in a sudden burst of confidence.

"Oh, god," he said, breaking the kiss and looking pained. "Goddamn bruise."

"I—" Heat flushed Karen's body, heat that had nothing to do with the shower. "We can be gentle."

"Being gentle ain't on my goddamn list tonight, Page," he growled, and kissed her again, teeth scraping across her lips.

She groaned into his mouth and pressed him up against the slick tile wall, raising her left knee up against his waist and bucking against him. "Fuck, Frank," she gasped, and his hand gripped her thigh tightly.

"Shh, shh," he moaned, and blinked water out of his eyes as he reached down between them and fumbled around, pressing his wide fingers to the juncture of her legs. "Holy shit," he whispered, and she gripped his neck and held on, making awful noises she had forgotten she could make as he pressed in with two fingers. "Jesus Christ, Karen," he gasped, and she kissed him again, hard and frantic as his hand began to move.

"Oh, fuck," she hissed, and jammed her face into the crook of his neck. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." His thumb slid across her clit, and she spluttered in shock and convulsed against his hand, then reached down and got her hand around his dick, which was pressed somewhere between them.

Frank went very still, his mouth slack. "Page," he croaked. "Do you—are you—"

Karen pulled gently from base to tip, and back down. He half bucked, and stopped himself. "I want you. All of you. Is this—is that okay?" She repeated her movement, and he shuddered, then let out an incoherent noise and grabbed her free hand, kissing her fingers.

She stroked him again, and this time he let out a groan and let his head fall on her shoulders. "You gotta give me an answer here," she teased. "Did I find the off switch for your vocal cords or something?"

He raised his head and kissed her cheek, her chin, her lips. "Yes," he croaked through what sounded like a throat full of asphalt. "Fuck, Karen."

"Right here, then," she whispered, and pressed the tip of his cock to her core.

"Oh, holy god," he choked out, and gripped her leg tightly. "If—if I hurt you—"

"It's okay," she reassured, and held onto his shoulders. "It's fine. I want this. Please. Frank. Please—"

He set his jaw and turned her around so that she was against the wall and he was facing her, pinning here there. "Easier like this," he explained, and lifted her right leg too, so she was effectively sandwiched there by her torso.

"Don't drop me," she panted, and gripped his shoulders tight.

"Never," he said, and drove himself home in one slow, measured thrust.

Karen raked his back with her short, blunt nails and half-choked. "Holy _shit_ , Frank."

"You—ah, god. Karen. You hold on. Hold on." Frank drew back and forward into her again, and she felt it in her fucking thighs, tingling all the way down to her toes.

"Harder," she begged, her whole focus narrowed down to one point. "Fucking, fuck, Frank, _harder_ —"

Frank made a noise that might have been words at some point on the way from his brain to his mouth and gripped her legs tight, bracing himself against the wet floor. "Shit," he said, as his foot slipped a few inches. "Hold on, hold on. Goddammit."

"Fucking hell," she spat as he pulled out of her and knelt on the tile. "Frank, what—"

His mouth closed on her, and she spluttered and grabbed his hair as his tongue slid in a soft circle around her clit. "Frank," she groaned, and he hummed, sending vibrations up through her core.

She wasn't expecting his hand to snake up between her legs, but welcomed the three rough fingers that  eased her open and crooked, stroking her from inside. "Oh, god oh god oh god," she chanted, and her knees almost gave out, shaking. He reached up with his other hand and held her up as he worked away relentlessly at her. Karen gripped his hair with both hands and he looked up, blinking water out of his dark eyes.

That did it. She pitched right over her edge and came apart, letting out a sustained groan while her legs shook, and as she folded over onto him she felt him holding her and laying her down, against the wall with her legs flopped open.

"There we go, Page," he said softly, kissing her knee. His mouth and chin were slick. "Easy does it. You okay?"

"Bed," she said, finding her voice. "Now."

~

It was warmer when they got into the bedroom, both still wet-haired and dripping. Karen dragged him to the bed, kissing him frantically, and Frank pulled her down and held her tight against him.

He winced again as he used his abdominal muscles to roll to the side. "Ow, shit."

"I don't want to hurt you," Karen said worriedly.

"I'm fine," he said. "It's just a bruise. C'mere." Frank gathered her into his arms and kissed her again, his hands tracing her sides half-reverently.

"God, you're warm," she said, and hiked her leg up over his waist.

"You ain't shy about what you want, huh?" he said with a grin.

She blushed. "You—you felt. Um. Really good."

Frank raised himself on his left elbow and looked down at her. "Yeah, well. You felt like—like—well, I'm glad I didn't stay where I was for too long 'cause I woulda embarrassed myself."

She snorted. "It's not embarrassing. You haven't, you know. Had sex in a while."

"Yeah, well." He rubbed his nose. "Wanted to make sure you got done first." For answer, she wiggled closer and kissed him slowly on the mouth, making sure to drag her nails up his sides gently. He shivered and pulled her in closer. "God. You're gonna kill me."

"I hope not," she said, and worked her way down to his neck, his throat, his collarbones. He let out a soft sigh and brushed her chest with the backs of his hands, making her nipples hard with attention. Karen raised herself up and straddled his hips, tracing the outlines of his muscle with her fingers. "This okay?"

"Yes," he whispered roughly, and she looked up to see tears leak from under his closed eyelids.

"Frank, you okay?" she asked.

He opened his eyes and smiled at her as more tears fell. "I'm fine," he said softly, and sniffed.

"You're crying," she said hesitantly.

"it's a good crying," he said, and reached up for the back of her neck, drawing her back down to kiss him. She tasted salt on his cheeks, and pressed her body against his gently, so as not to hurt him.

"God, d'you know how long I've wanted this?" he mumbled into her wet hair.

"Probably about as long as I have," she said, and kissed him before leaning back. "Tell me when you're ready."

Frank patted her thigh. "Let me get up for a second, let me scoot back." She opened her legs and he scooted back against the headboard, letting him recline instead of lying down flat. "Okay. Be gentle with me, now."

She chuckled. "I'll try not to bump your bruise."

"Miss Page," he said, raising one eyebrow, "I hope I forget it exists."

She lined herself up and watched him grip fistfuls of her duvet before sitting down on him fully, and _that_ angle was, that was, holy shit. Frank let out a groan that was almost drowned out by her own. Her legs were shaking again, that tingle of electric fire racing down her nerves. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're thick," she forced out, and started to rock back and forth, her hips jerking.

"Oh, shit," swore Frank, and reached up for her blindly, gripping the back of her head, her hips, her waist. It was like he didn't know what to do with his own hands. "Oh, god. Karen."

"Yeah?" she managed, moving her hips in a more circular motion. "Good?"

His only answer was a garbled noise, and he jerked his hips upward, slamming the breath from her lungs before he grunted in pain and fell back. "Shit, shit," he moaned. "Karen. Harder."

She leaned down, braced herself on the bed, and started jerking her hips forward and back as hard as she could. Frank's eyes flew open, and what remained of his restraint evaporated in a second. One of his arms grabbed her around the waist and yanked her close, and the other crossed over her shoulders and pinned her down to him as he lifted his hips and began to fuck her, hard and close and fast.

Karen was vaguely aware a long, drawn out moan was coming out of her mouth, but couldn't stop it. _Oh god, oh god, oh god oh god,_ she thought, and tried to muffle the moan in his shoulder. She bit down and squeezed her eyes shut. He was everywhere, she couldn't move, and she had never loved anything as much as she loved this. She never wanted it to end, but at the same time she thought she might die if it continued.

Frank was straining under her, incoherent and gasping like a man running a race. The only words she could make out were "Karen" and "yes" for about two glorious minutes before his face pulled into a grimace and he pushed her back up and off his dick without warning, just as she was reaching her second climax.

"I’m," she panted, and reached down with her fingers as he reached down to grasp himself.

"Ungh— _Karen—_ "

He came hard, one fist around his dick and the other holding a knot of sheets. Karen ground hers out against her hand and collapsed across him, holding herself up to the side with both arms. Frank's legs were wound tight as cord under hers as he groaned his way through his climax, then went soft as he fell back and melted into the bed, his free arm flung over his face and his business hand resting on his bruised stomach.

Karen dragged herself off his legs and collapsed, curling up next to him. Neither of them spoke for a minute, there was only breathing.

Frank spoke first. "Sorry about the mess."

Karen rested her hand on his chest. "Washcloth is in the bathroom," she said drowsily.

He sighed softly, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, then heaved himself up with a soft "ow" and padded into the bathroom. She heard water running, then he came back out with a washcloth and gently wiped down her legs.

"Come to bed," she said, and kicked her way under the covers.

Frank kissed her forehead, went back to the bathroom to deposit the washcloth, and came back out. "Oof," he said wearily, crawling under the sheets. "Don't wake me up for a week, Page."

"Mmm," she said, curling up close to him. "I won't if you don’t." She pulled the sheets up over both of them and nestled down in the crook of his elbow. "Don't run off in the morning."

Frank sighed and rolled his head to the side, kissing the top of her head. "Absolutely not," he said gruffly, and eased onto his side so that he could put his right arm around her and hold her close. "I'm staying right here. You rest easy."

"Promise?" she breathed, half asleep.

"Promise," he said, and both of them drifted off into the sort of deeply secure sleep that one only experiences after a job well done.


	11. Chapter 11

Karen slowly became aware that she was nestled in a warm cocoon of blankets, one arm tucked underneath her and the other flung across something very warm, solid, and large. It was well into the morning, maybe 8? She didn't want to look at a clock.

She shifted, and felt the delicious ache of well-used muscle spread through her thighs and somewhere deep inside.

"Frank," she whispered hoarsely, and opened one eye to see him, sleeping on his side and facing her. He was completely unconscious, his chest moving gently with the rhythm of sleep. Karen blinked sleep from her eyes and looked at him.

Lips slightly open, black hair an uncombed mess. The strong features of his face—his cheekbones, his nose, his jaw—were relaxed in sleep. She smiled to herself, and then realized she'd gotten rather overheated under the blankets.

Karen shifted and rolled over to her left side, facing away from him, backing up into the curve of his body and shutting her eyes again. _Fifteen more minutes_ , she thought.

She must have drifted off, because suddenly she was startling awake again and Frank was nuzzling down toward her, his hips grinding against her ass. She instinctively pushed back, and realized somewhat abashedly that he was hard. Very hard. And moaning into her hair.

"Frank," she mumbled, not wanting to wake him up completely and very aware of the fact that the only thing separating them was a thin layer of cotton sheet. "Hey."

He made a soft little needy sound and his hands twitched.

 _Please,_ she thought with a sudden jolt of horror, _please don't call me—_

"Frank," she said, reaching behind her to pat him on the side. "Frank, wake up."

"Karen?" he muttered, and something inside her went hot and soft as honey.

"Hey," she whispered, and he rolled his hips slowly, deliberately.

"I was dreamin' about you," he rumbled, and pulled the soft curtain of her hair back to kiss her neck.

Karen swallowed and tried not to melt. One of her hands went searching back between them, behind her back, dragging the sheet out of the way of his path. "Please," she whispered, her throat gone dry.

"Like this, huh?" he asked, and shifted, pressing himself between her legs.

"Oh, god," she managed. "Yes."

"All right. You hold still for a sec." Frank stroked her from the front to the back, humming softly as she opened up beneath his fingers, wet and warm. "There we go."

Karen gripped the thick arm beneath her head and groaned. Her mouth was dry. "Oh, god, Frank," she croaked, and he rubbed his thumb against her nipple gently.

"Easy, Miss Page," he said. "This time I'll be gentle." Another kiss landed on her bare shoulder, and then he was slowly pushing his way in.

Karen couldn't stand it. She lifted her right leg to hook over his, and shoved back against him, shuddering. "Oh, oh, god oh god oh god," she gasped.

Frank made a low noise into her hair and laid one big hand across her hip. "Easy does it," he whispered, and held her there as he pumped his hips back and forth.

Noises Karen had forgotten she could make were spilling out of her mouth and getting lost in the mass of sheets and tangled hair. Frank was holding her close, kissing every inch of exposed skin he could reach with a tenderness she didn't know he was capable of. His tongue slid across her shoulder, the length of her collarbone. He hadn't shaved, and his stubble rasped against her skin like sandpaper.

Karen jerked forward away from the roughness and giggled mid-gasp. "Frank, ah, god."

"Hey, come back here," he teased, and pulled her back, jerking his hips a few times, firm and steady. Karen spluttered and ground back against him.

"That's—playing dirty," she insisted, and mock-struggled as he laughed and pinned her against his broad chest with both arms.

"Mmm, I can play dirtier," he mused, and then she was being flipped onto her stomach, Frank still buried in her but on top of her back. The angle changed, and her whole body tingled in shock.

"Jesus fucking—"

"Oh, Christ," said Frank, and hauled himself up, bracing himself with one hand.  "Ahh, Jesus, Page. Karen. Kar—Karen. Don't move."

She went still as he repositioned himself, then almost collapsed when his fingers crept to the place their bodies joined and brushed across her clit. "Fucking _hell—"_

"Oh, god, I can feel that," he whispered, and bent his head to kiss her back, her shoulders, her scar. His hips began to move again, soft and slow. "Oh, dammit," he panted not a minute in. "Kar—I'm gonna—"

"No, not yet," she gasped, and frantically lurched forward, slipping him free of her and turning over onto her back. "Come down, come here—"

He went into her arms, crawling up her body with his eyes focused on her face. "Here," he said.  "I'm here. I'm—"

Karen lifted her hips and pressed him in, her feet on his ass. "Here," she gasped, and clutched at him as he let out a low noise and began to move again, slow and thorough.

He was kissing her again, everything he could reach. Her hair was stuck to her face, but he was kissing her through it. His hands were cradling her neck, her shoulders, anything they could reach.

"Frank—I'm—" Karen bared her teeth and ground upwards against him, shaking with the effort as she hit her climax. She dropped back with a gasp to see that he was staring at her intently, lips parted like she was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

"K—Karen," he said helplessly, and without much warning pulled out, coming all over her stomach.

He hovered for a second, breathing heavily, then scooted off to the right and dumped himself in a heap next to her spent body.

Karen reached over and stroked his hair, damp with the sweat of exertion. "Hell of a good morning," she joked.

Frank snorted from somewhere down in her sheets. He wasn't capable of speech yet.

She looked down and considered the translucent smears on her stomach. "I'll get the washcloth," she said, and slipped out of bed, padding to the bathroom and cleaning herself up. She looked in the mirror and saw several reddish marks on her upper arms, swollen lips, and red eyes—in addition to the mass of uncombed and tousled blond hair that was half stuck to her face.

Sighing, she grabbed her hairbrush and went to work detangling the mess. It didn’t take long, and then she was back crawling into bed with Frank's inert, warm form.

"Hey," he said as she curled up next to him.

"Hey," she said, feeling slightly foolish.

He rolled to face her and covered her hands with one of his. "You okay?" he asked, an she saw the barely-cloaked nervousness behind his eyes, the question written there _did I cross a line_ and she smiled.

"I'm fine. I'm more than fine." She scooted forward and kissed the tip of his nose. "Are you?"

He let out a soft huff and made an odd movement with his head, then rolled forward to tuck his head under her chin as his right hand came up to embrace her body, hand curling around her shoulder. "Yeah," he said as an afterthought.

"Frank…"

"I can't lose you," he said roughly, with sudden force. "Karen. Not again. I won't lose you."

"I'm right here," she said gently. "Shh."

His hands tightened for the briefest of seconds, and then he was pulling back, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips—

Karen's phone rang, and they both jumped. Well, Karen jumped. Frank's immediate reaction was to sit straight up and throw an arm in front of Karen.

"It's probably work," she said, tactfully avoiding mentioning his fight response, and picked it up. "Hello?"

"Karen? Hey, it's Ellison. Uh, you're on the news."

"I'm _what?_ " Beside her, Frank's jaw tightened.

"Turn your TV on. I gotta go, Homeland Security is at the office—"

Karen hung up on him and ran to the living room, Frank in hotly worried pursuit. She flipped the TV on and saw a reporter—“ _After a long night at this pier behind me, the Department of Homeland Security set out early this morning with several  warrants for the arrests of several people allegedly involved in a wide human trafficking ring centered around the Hudson. Late last night papers were found on the person of well-known New York high society member Benjamin Falconetti, Jr. All we know right now is that Mr. Falconetti is in critical condition at an undisclosed hospital, and several National Guardsmen have been called in by the DHS to guard his person.”_

_“Can you tell us anything about the arrests?”_

_“Well, Jeff, there is a rumor that several members of the FBI and most of the local police force were being bribed or paid off in some way to look the other way. Most of this was uncovered by a local journalist, Karen Page, and—“_

Karen muted the TV. “We did it,” she whispered, and fumbled with her phone and the business card still in her purse. “Let me email this to that agent—”

“National Guard,” scoffed Frank. “Shoulda called in the Marines.”

She looked up, grinning. “We already had one here,” she said firmly, and kissed him on the cheek.

Frank turned his head quick as a snake and caught her mouth with his. “Mmm,” he said softly, and brushed her hair out of the way.

“I gotta send this email,” she protested, grinning. “Frank!”

“Okay, send it,” he said, and slid down to his knees, kissing her thighs. “C’mon, Page. Hurry it up.”

“You’re being distracting,” she spluttered, and pressed _send_ before flinging her phone to the sofa and grabbing his hair. His tongue went somewhere tender and she shrieked. “Frank!”

He looked up, lips shining. “Hmm? You say somethin’?”

“I thought you had a bruise,” she panted, and he pressed his forehead to her stomach.

"I do—oh, that reminds me." Frank got to his feet. "I got you something for Christmas."

"It—Christmas?" Karen stared at him. "Oh, my god. It's Christmas Eve. Today's the 24th."

He walked into the bedroom. She heard him shuffling around, and then he came out with a garbage bag wrapped around something. "Sorry. Couldn't get wrapping paper or anything fancy, but—"

Karen opened the bag and pulled out a women's bulletproof vest. It weighed about six pounds, was black and streamlined, and—

"This has _pockets_ ," she said in disbelief, stroking the cordura. 

"Don't get the wrong idea," he said hurriedly. "You're not gonna be, y'know, joining up with me on the regular. That's only got protection against a 9mm round and a typical knife. This is for just in case, all right?"

"I love it," she said. "But—I didn't get you anything."

"Sure you did," he said softly, and put the vest down. "Sure you did. Hey. Come here."

She giggled as he drew her in close and kissed her nose, her cheek, her mouth. "Frank!"

"Mmm," he said against her neck, and slid down to her chest, her stomach, pressing kisses all the way down. "You bein' alive is my damn present," he whispered, and bit gently at her hipbone.

Karen muffled a gasp and grabbed him by the hand. "I'm here," she said, and felt like her skin was burning.

“Good. Bed.” Another kiss, warm and rough, pressed to her thigh. “Now.”

And, really, well. Karen couldn’t disagree with that in the slightest.

~

Mrs. DiAngelo was just turning on her very favorite soap at 3 PM and settling into her chintz couch when a very loud _bang_ from down the hall caught her attention.

Hoping it wasn’t burglars, she grabbed the only weapon to hand, a large metal spoon, and marched out of her door and down to the hall, where that ridiculous Karen Page lived.

Mrs. DiAngelo drew herself up and froze as another loud _whunk_ met her ears, and then the unmistakable sound of a woman groaning, long and drawn out, floated into the hall. There was a crash, and then a man making dreadful pained noises as well.

She puffed up into a ball of indignant bluster and waved her spoon at the door. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” she gasped under her breath, half afraid to knock. The man, she was sure, was the man from earlier that week. Karen’s boyfriend. The military one.

Mrs. DiAngelo hadn’t been sure, but that time he’d come to her apartment asking about the man who’d given her the note… yes, she was sure of it. Not just anyone had that bearing, or that dark thing just behind his eyes that looked like it wanted to die.

She remembered, with a sudden burst of clarity, her own brother, and Viet Nam.

“Well,” she whispered to the door, after a long and blessedly silent minute. “if it makes you happy.” She lowered the spoon, and her fingers went to the crucifix around her neck.

Another muted sound from behind the wall, and Mrs. DiAngelo, tender moment almost forgotten, scuttled back to her own apartment in a huff, spoon swinging like a gavel.

~

If you asked Karen Page why she carried a gun, no; she would not tell you it was because she was haunted by the ghost of a dead man. She would say, _for my protection,_ and point to the enemies she’d made in her short but explosive career in Hell’s Kitchen.

She knew all too well that the living ghost of a dead man haunted her steps. Her home. Her bed.

 _For protection._ And yet she was as safe as if an army followed her on the streets of New York.

For her enemies knew all too well that a vengeful spirit, by far, is the worst kind of ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ho ho holy shit we're done y'all! It's ALMOST CHRISTMAS I can't believe it wtf. anyway merry christmas and happy holidays and I hope you enjoyed riding this ride as much as I did writing the ride! thank u so much for the love <3
> 
> sidenote! this is Karen's new vest: https://www.safeguardclothing.com/28-female-body-armor/cordura-female-ii-bullet-1-stab-zip/?gclid=EAIaIQobChMIlrKhmcCh2AIVjR2BCh1TwAPVEAQYASABEgL6K_D_BwE


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